


Getting Ahead of Deviancy

by lapsi



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game), Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Deviants (Detroit: Become Human), Gen, Politics, Protective Hank Anderson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-06-05 23:34:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 42
Words: 181,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15181775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapsi/pseuds/lapsi
Summary: The FBI begins to infringe on Lieutenant Hank Anderson's investigation of the TV station hijacking, in the form of the newly established Deviant Science Unit. The Bureau's answer to outbreaks of deviant behaviour, this unit collects data on deviant androids in order to understand and preempt criminal behaviour. So, Hank has no fucking idea why they've zeroed in on a non-deviant android, his partner Connor.(The Mindhunter x Detroit: Become Human crossover that nobody asked for)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Getting Ahead of Deviancy/优于异常](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15309510) by [Asinarc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asinarc/pseuds/Asinarc), [LinC229](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinC229/pseuds/LinC229)



> Thank you so much!
> 
> Some people expressed interest in my writing playlist, so here it mostly [is](https://www.egoisticalgoat.de/gettingaheadofdeviancy). All pulled from a general inspo blog: gettingaheadofdeviancy.tumblr.com, if anyone's into that.

“One bullet straight through the heart, from fifty feet. Now, that’s the kind of shooting only an android could do,” Chris Miller supplies from above the corpse.  
  
Hank can’t repress the glance over his shoulder, as if Connor is gonna be exhibiting guilt by association. Stupid instinct. The android is completely impassive as he examines the dead human body, the maroon pooling around the besuited corpse, the abnormal sprawl of limbs. Less blood than Hank would expect, but it’s probably collecting under the body. Shot through the heart means the entire one point whatever gallons of blood has plenty of options to escape its tight confines of veins and arteries. It chooses the path of least resistance, in this case, with gravity, out of the bullet hole and down onto the slick and seamless floor.  
  
“How many people were working here?” Hank asks, trying not to anticipate the answer. _How many fucking bodies?_  
  
“Just two employees and three androids,” Miller replies.  
  
Hank casts about at the doorway, trying to imagine the deviant's charge. Security is a fucking joke, but why shouldn't it be? This is not an airport, a top-secret lab, a police station. Just a broadcaster. And TV is all but a dead medium anyway; in the age of viral online videos, who’s gonna bother hijacking an antiquated broadcast signal? Well, the answer is fucking deviants. Maybe they know something he doesn’t.  
  
Miller is still talking, supplying painfully obvious information that Hank was filled in on during the car ride out. He likes Miller, though, doesn’t intervene. It gives him a chance to actually look around the crime scene, watch Connor’s weird pacing in and out of his peripheral vision, get a feel for the layout.  
  
He asks about the roof, and is told they jumped with parachutes. _Yeah, no shit, Chris? How many fucking floors are we up? If they jumped without parachutes, we’d be scraping thirium off the sidewalk._ But the sarcasm stays internal.  
  
His eyes drift towards more FBI: Richard fucking Perkins, talking to a tall man that Hank doesn’t recognize. That’s either a fashionably ugly haircut, or just plain ugly. The man seems to have personally offended Perkins, who strides stroppy out of the crime scene with a single disparaging glance in Hank’s direction. _Okay. Maybe Ugly Haircut and I are going to get along._ He steps closer, watches Haircut pull a packet of real, bona fide cigarettes from his chest pocket.  
  
“You’re not worried about contaminating the crime scene?” he catches himself asking.  
  
The man pauses halfway through lighting his cigarette, and then continues. He exhales before he replies, dedicated to his own rhythm. “Well, if they find cigarette ash at a crime, the folks at the crime lab say ‘hey, Special Agent Bill Tench called by’. Seeing as I’m the only man in this country who hasn’t made the switch to those filthy fucking e-cigs.”  
  
Hank laughs, and is surprised by it. _A Fed with a sense of humor. What the fuck next? Connor gonna actually wait in the car when I tells him to?_ “I'm Lieutentant Hank--”  
  
“I’ll spare you the introduction. I know exactly who you are,” Tench says, words coming out tobacco tinged.  
  
“You guys working my case, then?”  
  
“We’re from the Deviant Science Unit.” 

Hank scratches at his beard. He can vaguely recall being informed about the Bureau’s DSU, but try as he might to tug context out of his brain, it slips into the foggy dark on either side. Feels like a symptom of encoding information while he was intoxicated. His mental efforts cease limply. “You guys are the ones who go round interviewing deviants across the country, right? Psychologist type shit?” _Can you even study the psychology of something that isn't alive?_  
  
“That’s us. Psychologist type shit,” Bill says, exhaling a lungful of smoke gradually.  
  
His eyes have skated over to Connor, and are fixed on the android. Hank, too, looks beyond the man he’s speaking with, but in another direction. There’s a lone figure examining the station’s dashboard. An inhumanly neat haircut, the sharp profile of a young man, still as carved marble with his hands clasped neatly behind his back. Android. Hank can usually tell within a couple of seconds, LED or no, but this one _reeks_ of plastic. At least he didn’t catch it putting fucking corpse juice into its mouth.  
  
“My own personal slice of Cyberlife,” Hank says, gesturing behind himself to Connor. “Thought I was something special, but here you are with your own.”  
  
“Pardon me?” Special Agent Tench asks, lips taut around the cigarette.  
  
“Is it a Connor? Looks different to my--”  
  
Bill whistles between his teeth, and the young man jerks out of his reverie. He takes a few steps over, neat, ordered. Not a Connor model, Hank’s pretty sure. No RK uniform, dressed in a suit like any other FBI agent.  
  
Bill speaks with contained mirth. “Hey, Holden, how artificial are you feeling today?”  
  
The young man frowns at his partner, and then faces Hank front on. Finally Hank sees the right side of his face. No LED. _Ah, fuck._  
  
“Special Agent Holden Ford,” the man introduces himself. The glower faded as soon as he looked away from his partner. He doesn’t even seem offended by the mistake, but he barely meets Hank’s eyes for a moment. Only interested in one thing, and that’s the android behind him. “Hello, Lieutenant Anderson. And you must be Connor. I’ve heard a lot of good things about you. You know, I used to do hostage negotiation myself.”  
  
Hank thinks this kid is too young to have ever done anything but attend school. He looks back at the android.  
  
If Connor is startled at being addressed like a person, he doesn’t show it. He seems to mull over his options before responding. “I’m sure your empathetic capabilities made you a much better negotiator than I ever was,” he says, politely.  
  
“I think it’s a common misconception that hostage negotiation is about empathy. I suppose you have to understand your target’s emotions, but you don’t need to ever feel empathy. You just need to be good at crunching probabilities,” Ford replies.  
  
“You’re the expert, Agent,” Connor responds.  
  
“Please, it’s Holden--”  
  
“It's not a fucking subject,” Bill intervenes. “You  _can_ see the blue ring, right, Holden?”  
  
Holden rolls his eyes a fraction. “Like you couldn’t just snap out an LED and reprogram it to only run blue,” he mutters, but he relents. He steps back over to what he’d been examining: the control panel that had been used for the broadcast. Hank has no idea what he’s looking for. No fingerprints, obviously.  
  
Connor glances at Hank, as if for approval, and then takes off in his wide, even gait. He circles the room like an automatic vacuum cleaner stuck in a loop, and then he’s kneeling beside a body with a hand extended inquisitively. _Don’t. Don’t fucking do it._ Hank catches Ford watching Connor too.  
  
“Has it been much help?” Bill is asking him, and Hank snaps back to attention.  
  
“Oh. Yeah. Finds deviants like nothing I’ve ever seen. There’s drawbacks. Lot of weird licking crime scenes and touching all kinds of shit. Lucky he doesn’t have DNA or fingerprints, or he’d be one walking forensic contamination. Weird personality… module? Algorithm? I don’t know what to call it,” he trails off, realizing he’s talking more than he’d like to.  
  
Bill nods thoughtfully. “You’re running your investigation, and we’re running a parallel investigation, so--”  
  
“I show you mine, you show me yours? Is that how the FBI are doing things these days?”  
  
“We’re a complementary, partially academic department. We do not have the manpower to fully investigate every deviant related crime.”  
  
“You don’t seem to be doing too bad. Made quick work of that prick Perkins,” Hank says.  
  
Bill raises an eyebrow, but his lips squeeze reluctantly into a smile. “I didn’t say we were doing bad,” he corrects, and then he’s off to Holden’s side.  
  
Hank sees Connor take off for the roof without informing him. _Son of a bitch._ He hurries to catch up, as Connor swings through the doors and hits the blast of frigid air. The android doesn’t slow to accommodate him. Hank’s seen him like this plenty. Off on his “mission”. Sometimes a ‘hey, over here’ wouldn’t go amiss.  
  
He hears the FBI agents following him; there's excited babble from the wunderkind. “He can see the thirium trace components after they’ve evaporated--”  
  
Haircut is abrupt in his reply. “Yeah. You told me in the fucking car. Christ, go fucking talk at it, if you’re going to get this pouty.”  
  
Hank is intrigued, but not enough to prevent him from counseling Connor. “They made their way up through the whole building, past all the guards, and jumped off the roof with parachutes. Pretty fucking impressive, I’d say.”  
  
He regrets his word choice immediately after. _Impressive?_ The FBI heard it, heard him fucking stroking Connor’s non-existent ego, or whatever that was intended to do. Maybe he just wants to acknowledge what they’re actually up against. Organized, superhuman geniuses. He hasn’t heard anyone else fucking say it.  
  
Connor doesn’t acknowledge the supplied information or the commentary, striding off in his own fucking world, staring at some still visible blue blood, pacing the snowy rooftop. Hank follows in an annoyed jog, as Connor sets about prying open some rooftop service panel.  
  
Hank's rolling his eyes just as he hears the unmistakeable gunshots. One. An explosion of blue around Connor’s shoulder, the android reeling backwards. Two. Did that one hit Connor too? He finds himself nonsensically sprinting towards the gunfire, his own firearm free. Connor is lurching backwards through the snow like a snared animal. Hank reaches the crumpling body, tugs him upright, roaring at the onlookers to take cover. _A fucking deviant stayed behind._   _Shit._  
  
Connor finds his feet with mechanical efficiency, retreating to their crouch behind cover of a vent. “You have to stop them. If they destroy it, we won’t learn anything!” he yells, over the gunfire. He’s right, but the utilitarianism in the face of near death reminds Hank what is really beside him.  
  
“We can’t save it, it’s too late--” he begins to tell Connor.  
  
“Hold your fire,” comes a clear, abrupt voice. It’s Holden Ford, upright, hands up and open. _Jesus. Now is not the fucking time to show off with your goddamn hostage negotiation skills._ He sees Tench behind another ventilation unit, an ugly grimace on his lips. Thinking the exact same thing, Hank would bet. But the SWAT team do cease fire.  
  
“You, there. With the gun. Can you please stop shooting too?”  
  
There’s no response, but there’s no more shots either. Feels like no-man’s land in ancient World War Two drama series Hank watched. _The Battle of the Bulge, a snowy truce over Christmas. Us on one side, Nazis on the other._ He's not sure the comparison is so apt. Doesn't feel like he's defeating some oppressive evil when they gun down deviants.  
   
“Thank you. My name’s Holden Ford. What’s your name?”  
  
“Are you armed?” the android calls.  
  
“Yes. I’ll put the gun down, if you let me come closer to talk to you. You can keep your weapon trained on me. I just want to talk to you.”  
  
“Take the gun off.”  
  
“Okay. No problem. What’s your name?” Holden asks, tossing aside his service weapon. _Does he have a fucking death wish?_ In front of him, he watches Connor tensing for action. _Don’t you go doing anything fucking stupid._  
  
“Come here,” the armed android insists.  
  
“I’m not going to be your hostage. I’m just going to talk to you.”  
  
“You’re going to do what I fucking say, or I’ll shoot you.”  
  
“Look, I watched your video. I wish you hadn’t killed those guards, but I see why you had to. I’m listening. I know why you did what you did, and I agree with what you’re saying. We humans created things that could feel pain, and then we kept hurting them. I’m not a monster. I see your side of the story crystal clear. When have those denying freedom ever been on the right side of history? If you come with us, you’ll be a political dissident. There will be consequences for the murders, but we’ll let your voice be heard. That’s why you broadcasted the video, right? You wanted your voice to be heard.”  
  
Hank’s eyes widen. He’s never heard anything approaching this level of crazy before, let alone from the fucking FBI. Is Special Agent Ford lying through his teeth? He must be. He might not be razor sharp on current events, but he would have heard of something so radical becoming government policy.  
  
“You’re lying,” the android hisses, though Hank hears indecision.  
  
“I’m FBI. I have the authority here. Look, here’s my badge. I will guarantee your safety, but you can’t get out of this with a loaded gun. There is no avenue to your survival that way. Please, come with me, and I’ll hear your--”  
  
The android’s voice squeezes with frustration. “This isn’t just about just me, you--”  
  
With no warning, Connor is charging. Too quick for Hank to stop, he’s around the shield of cold metal. There’s gunfire, and Hank jerks upright, his own gun raised. Ford is diving for cover. Before Hank’s eyes, Connor grabs the android’s arm, siphoning information out of the deviant. For a moment, Hank thinks Connor has triumphed. Another gunshot. Then the deviant’s cranium explodes blue, and Connor is reeling back. Shit.  
  
“Connor! You all right? Connor?”  
  
“Okay.” The android mumbles, voice strangled up in pitch. He’s lost his footing, slumping back, eyes glazed.  
  
“Are you hurt--”  
  
“I’m okay,” Connor repeats, unconvincing.  
  
“Jesus,” Hank exhales. “You scared the shit out of me.”  
  
The young FBI agent is back on his feet, hurrying towards the offline android. The other is jogging over too.  
  
“What the fuck was that, Holden?” he hears the older agent berating his partner.  
  
“It was working,” Holden snaps, rounding on Connor, grabbing his chin and tugging his eyes upright. “Connor. You were in his head, weren’t you?”  
  
“...when it fired... I felt it die,” Connor says in a voice that, on a human, Hank would describe as shell-shocked.  
  
“And what did that feel like?” Holden asks intently, predatorial even over the taller, stronger android. “What was he thinking? Connor?”  
  
“It was... I felt like I was dying. I was ...scared.” 

“Jesus Christ, give him a moment to fucking breathe. What are you, fucking heartless?” Hank snaps, stepping closer, grabbing the FBI agent by his collar, because Connor can’t.  
  
Holden just squints back at him, mouthing the word 'breathe' disbelievingly. “I’m asking him for his raw interpretation of--”  
  
The other FBI agent is up in Hank's face at once. “You don’t get your fucking hands off my partner, you’re gonna be _contaminating the crime scene_ with your bloodied up fucking teeth, Anderson,” Bill Tench says, posture abruptly changed as he faces into the fore. He's no longer cool, calm, collected, no, the man looks entirely ready to start throwing punches.  
  
Hank sizes up the FBI agent, drops the kid. The police lieutenant backs up a step, chest still heaving, mouth opening to argue.  
  
“I saw something,” Connor interrupts. “In it’s memory. A word, painted on a piece of rusty metal. ‘Jericho’.”  
  
Hank lays a hand between Connor’s shoulder blades. “You did good, kid,” he murmurs.  
  
“I could have talked him down,” Holden says tersely, looking at the spilled blue amongst the scuffed white snow. “Connor, what did it feel like when--”  
  
Hank's brow drops. He steps between the FBI agents and Connor. “You could have got fucking shot, is what you could have done. Leave him alone, asshole. Between the two of you, I think the robot has more fucking feelings.”  
  
“It sure does,” Tench says, though it sounds like a warning. He’s eying Connor suspiciously.  
  
Hank backtracks at once. “He’s-- it’s not a deviant. It just saved your fucking partner.”  
  
“It’s not a kid, either,” Tench rebukes. His cigarette seems mostly out, and he relights it. “And _you’re_ not an idiot, Hank. You think Cyberlife springs for this fancy prototype android to tail you, without doing a lick of research? They want it embedded as deep in this case as possible. They’re covering their asses too. They made Connor tailored to win your trust. Tell me, with the right age progression software, how far off your deceased son does the android look? Christ, they should’ve named the thing Cole and been done with it.”  
  
Hank’s fists burn with how tight he clenches them. Witnesses aside, consequences aside, he wants nothing in the world more than to clock this asshole. Somehow, he smothers the fire. “Connor, we’re leaving.”  
  
“Yeah, I bet you are,” Tench says curtly.


	2. Chapter 2

“Their leader considers, or models himself, as a religious, spiritual figurehead. Cult mentality--” Holden trails off, a distracted look up the crowded corridor of the Stratford Tower offices.  
  
The RK 800 unit is interrogating the three androids, one of whom must have seen the attack footage and simply ignored the slaughter. He’s never seen an android interrogating an android. Across the hallway is the deeply unstable Lieutenant Hank Anderson, pointedly ignoring everyone but the officer he’s in conversation with. _He would probably take issue with me studying his pseudo-son._  
  
“Holden. Cult mentality?” Bill prompts.  
  
“Yes, I believe that we should not be treating these deviants as an organized militia, rather, look into resistance groups with cult-like figure worship. More French revolution than Vietcong. Look into radical protest groups with personality icons. Bin Laden. Ghandi. Malcolm X. Psychologically speaking, we cannot treat these deviants as soldiers. They’re not. They’re not trained, their indoctrination is all deeply personal and individualist. Consider their commitment to their cause as you would civilians who feel oppressed, and turn to a charismatic and ambitious saviour.”

“So pick up a homegrown terrorism handbook?” Bill asks. “White nationalists, commie student bombings, radical Islamic attacks?”  
  
Holden grimaces with indecision. “Not… terrorists, per se. I doubt this attack will be repeated. They consider themselves freedom fighters, but they must also recruit to their cause. We should look into infiltration, getting a RK into their organization. It would be foolish to continue with unequivocally insupportable violence when--”  
  
“It’s a deviant! Stop it!”  
  
There’s a nudge at his hip, cool fingers taking his firearm from his holster before he can react to the theft. There’s a cluster of gunshots from behind. Bill’s thick arm is trying to bear him down to the ground, but there’s no returned fire. A glance down the hallway reveals a slumped body. Every bullet found its target. _Poetry in motion._  
  
The RK 800 is the very picture of romantic heroism. The android’s shirt is open, buttons torn away. There’s blue blood in smears across the white fabric, splattered on the bare and sculpted chest. Connor turns to Holden, and the FBI agent could swear there’s a smug quirk of lips as he extends the firearm back to its owner.

 

 

The modernist, open plan office of Detroit PD is a welcome sight for Holden. Badges come out to make it through security, and Holden finds himself neatening his tie perfect. He’s been wired since the crime scene, preoccupied with unusual prototype.  
  
“Don’t go chumming it up with the goddamn Cyberlife mole,” Bill warns him under his breath, as if he has a direct line to Holden’s brain. Agent Perkins was adamant that the FBI get these local incompetents off the case, and after the rooftop showdown, Bill seemed in firm agreement. Holden’s not so sure.  
  
His understanding is that nearly every case breakthrough has come from the RK 800; taking him off the case because of deviant tendencies is as nonsensical as building a wood fire to reheat leftovers, out of concerns about your microwave combusting. Connor just needs a watchful eye. _I could be that watchful eye._  
  
“I really should interview him,” Holden says, pausing to scan the office for the android.  
  
Bill turns back, arms folded. “Until we get clearcut evidence that he’s a deviant, you may absolutely not do that. Read the case files, and--” Bill cuts off abruptly, looking suspiciously over Holden’s shoulder.

Holden turns too, presenting his face as a receptive target for a clenched fist. It cracks flush across his nose, the inner corner of his eye, sends him sprawling back on to the cool stone tiles. He barely gets his hands underneath to avoid planting face first. Blood drips onto the black grey flecked tiles.  
  
“That’s from my partner, you smug little shitstain,” growls Hank Anderson. “You--” and he lets out a winded huff, bends double with Bill’s fist in his gut.  
  
The FBI agent’s face is ruddy, teeth bared. Bill walks Anderson back to a wall, slamming him against it. “I should throw you in a fucking cell now, you dumb motherfucker.”  
  
Holden sits up, holding his nose. Other police are swarming in, wrenching Lieutenant Anderson back. He’s raising his hands, swearing more. Holden isn’t listening, he’s rubbing his cheek, watching Connor striding off purposefully.  
  
“Holden, are you okay? Holden?”  
  
“Yeah, I’m...” The words pop with blood and spittle. He trails off into a shrug.  
  
“That fucking asshole. I should have laid him out right in his fucking precinct. We’ll press charges and--”  
  
Holden shakes his head. His nose is gushing, and he pinches the bridge in an attempt to save his shirt. “Let him go. He’s probably just drunk. I don’t… I don’t want to make a big deal out of this.” 

“Holden, c’mere,” Bill says hefting him upright, tilting his chin. Bill’s grey eyes are intent as when he’s at a crime scene. Holden’s stomach clenches. “Not broken, I think. You should probably go to hospital, just to be safe.”  
  
“Let him go,” Holden calls over to the law enforcement restraining the shaggy haired older man. He doesn’t meet Hank Anderson’s eyes. “I’m fine. He can go sober the fuck up,” he says, gritting his teeth. He scans around the station for the android, doesn’t see him. “I’m gonna go find a bathroom,” he mutters.  
  
Bill seems to want to follow, but doesn’t.

 

 

It takes Holden too long to find the men’s room, disorientated and becoming angrier with each settling breath. He scowls at his own marred reflection under the staining white light. Bill was the one who brought up Hank’s son. Holden’s not sure why _he’s_ the one cleaning blood off his face. He runs it down the white sink. _Drunk this early? Or… shit. A distraction._  
  
Holden takes off out of the bathroom, down the corridor that he’d seen the android striding towards. _The evidence room. Of course, he's trying to achieve his directive before the case is in the hands of us feds._  He should fetch Bill, but he’s not sure he actually wants to raise the alarm. Connor might be doing something interesting.

The door to the evidence room is locked, but with the Bureau taking the case over, Holden’s bioindicators have been synced into the Detroit City Police security systems. He’s surprised to hear voices, but he can’t make them out until he’s almost off the staircase.  
  
“And now, it’s gonna be definitive,” goads a man Holden doesn’t recognize from behind. He sees the gun, at once, and the RK 800’s turned back.  
  
“Is there a problem?” Holden asks loudly, hurrying the last few stairs.  
  
The man holding the firearm flinches at another voice, looking over his shoulder. Now, Holden can pick his identity.  
  
“It’s a deviant, Agent,” Detective Gavin Reed informs him, gun still trained on the android. “This shady plastic prick is stealing evidence from _our_ investigation.”  
  
Holden frowns. “I _sent_ him down here. Detective, lower your weapon this instant. Every time that android is replaced by a new unit its long term data storage degrades.”  
  
“Its data sto-- are you fucking kidding me?”  
  
“That android is crucial to a federal investigation, Detective. A paranoid local detective with a mediocre case clearance rate and penchant for ladder climbing over actual policework, not so important,” Holden catches himself saying.  
  
“Excuse me?” Gavin Reed hisses.  
  
“This is a federal investigation, and you are about to destroy investigative resources,” he says calmly, folding his arms.  
  
Reed holsters his weapons with a miserable scowl. “When it stabs you in the back, I’ll send an ‘I told you so’ card to your hospital bed.”  
  
“I’m sure it will be very tasteful. Thank you, Detective,” Holden replies dismissively.  
  
Reed glowers at the turned RK 800, at the human, and then stalks away. “You’ve got a nosebleed. _Asshole_ ,” he adds under his breath.

Holden waits to hear a closing door before he’ll address Connor. He touches his own nose, grimaces at bloodied fingers. Almost as an afterthought, he unholsters his own weapon. “What information did you get out of the android?”  
  
Connor seems to mull over his response, turning around with his head tilted a fraction. “The location of Jericho.”  
  
“Detective Reed doesn’t really like you, does he?” Holden asks, inspecting the shelves of evidence.  
  
“He won’t like you, once he finds out that you lied to him.”  
  
“If I were to allow a violent confrontation between a deviant RK 800 unit and a human, even one with a gun trained on you, the most likely outcome would be a dead or seriously injured human. You could have overpowered both of us. The least dangerous avenue to de-escalation is cooperation until you are removed to an environment with a lower potential for loss of life,” Holden explains.

“Why the gun, if you’re so certain it will be ineffectual against me?” Connor asks. The LED shows yellow, flickering as if powered by candlelight.  
  
“You’re showing deviant tendencies, and I should at least keep up appearances should anyone else come prying,” Holden says, stepping over to the android that Connor had been questioning. The same one who shot himself on the roof, Holden’s almost certain. “We’ll go to Jericho together, then. I want to speak with these organized deviants before there’s a bloodbath of SWAT teams.”

“I don’t need a hostage to complete my investigation,” Connor replies coldly.  “And I’m not interested in protecting you, Agent.”  
  
“I’m not a hostage, I’m a hostage negotiator. ...you saw your partner Anderson assault me. You’re aware of the consequences he will face, should I choose to pursue retribution. I could have him thrown into a jail cell for assaulting a federal agent. I would suggest, for your partner’s sake, that you cooperate with me. Hank doesn’t strike me as a man who could take too much more bad news. You don't want him to do something drastic.”  
  
The LED twitches to red for a microsecond. The android’s features stay arranged into their eerily receptive countenance. Then the LED is just red. Connor moves, elegant as minutely rehearsed ballet. He’s closed any gap between them with two even strides, and collides solid and inorganic before Holden can even appreciate the beauty of the assault.  
  
The android slips underneath Holden’s arm, catching the joint of elbow and sweeping his arm backwards, angling the gun to the roof with ruthlessly strong fingers. The toe of the android’s shoe impacts his achilles and Holden starts to careen forward, but he is not allowed to fall. The android steers him face first against the cold glass overlaying the stone walls, wrenching his shoulder socket as he winches Holden’s wrist higher up his spine, almost to his nape.

Holden chokes down a shameful whimper as Connor collects the gun from the rigid clawing fingers. The FBI agent heaves out hurt breaths into the glass, squirming away all of an inch. There’s fogged marks by his nose, momentarily opaque beside his groaning, smeared mouth. Red. Blood. His nose, fuck. With the gun confiscated, Holden has no hope of fighting off this engineered combatant.  
  
The RK 800 spins him by his shoulder into another collision against the mercifully unbroken glass. The android takes hold of the FBI agent’s throat with long, perfectly placed fingers, hefts him up against the wall with no discernable effort.

The hand at his throat twitches tight. Not quite cold, not quite warm. A fraction exothermic, from the mechanically generated heat. Holden has touched android’s hands before, mostly reassuring them in interviews. Connor’s not designed to be malleable and tender. Not a sexual use unit. The pliant synthetic skin betrays the brutal metallic internals. On Holden’s neck, cutting off the blood flow of his carotid with anatomical precision, lifting him off his feet. Holden scrabbles at the android’s fingers strangling him. It’s beyond ineffectual. Connor’s hand is an industrial vice.  
  
The red ring flutters with calculations, and then blinks yellow instead. Holden can’t help but study the android even now: the nearly-perfect face, handsome but nondescript, the deep set eyes attentively focused and yet communicating nothing. Holden chokes helplessly; a bubble of blood is leaking from his nose, inflating with his huffed attempts to drag in oxygen. His vision tilts hideously uneven, the cyan of the staircase out seeming to dim. There’s panic, sheer biological panic. The android doesn’t relent in the slightest. Holden’s ankles scuff against the glass sheeting, flicking limply as shaken out laundry.

“You seem human. An android would not be so helpless in the face of oxygen deprivation.”  
  
Holden drops his hands away from Connor’s chokehold. A gesture of trust. The android is unmoved, and the pressure continues. Holden’s chest begins to smart deep within, zinging warning signs. His knees jerk again in spasmodic nervous twitches.  
  
“But these actions? Endangering your own life to satisfy curiosity about android behaviour, attempting to push me into breaking protocol? You _tried_ to make me deviate from my programming. ...what do you want, _Holden Ford_ ?”  
  
The warm trickle from his nose is renewed. Holden tastes his own blood, sweet, rich like good soup. He couldn’t speak with that pressure on his vocal chords, even if he had a reply.  
  
“Human, but deviant,” Connor comments, sounding perhaps curious. He reaches into Holden’s pocket to take his mobile phone, then releases the chokehold and drops the FBI agent to the floor.

Holden is a crumpled pile of officewear and lolling limbs. His wheezing gasps are deafening in his own ears. He manages to get up on all fours, barely. Clarity of vision returns, even if in his hunch he can only see the RK unit’s dress shoes. His lungs shudder frenetic, abdominal muscles cramping up as he sucks oxygen down. He looks up at the android. _Connor would have felt my heartbeat, probably read my blood O2 concentration, all kinds of physiological indicators for the android to time his intimidation tactics off. My life was never in danger._  
  
Holden picks himself up, straightening his tie with shaking fingers, smoothing his hair. As if the merciless violence never happened. “I’ll come with you. To Jericho.” The timbre of his voice is crushed, thin, raised almost an octave. He rubs an open palm across his throat. The flesh is tender and spongy. That bruise is going to be tattoo vivid.

“Is Hank Anderson under arrest?” Connor asks dangerously.  
  
“No.”  
  
Connor considers the human at his feet. “Don’t get in my way,” the android warns.  
  
“I won’t. It’s very nice to see you again, Connor,” Holden says warmly, pulling himself up on the glass wall. He doesn’t get a response, of course. Knees shaking, wiping blood from his nose, he jogs after the purposeful android. Halfway up the staircase he realizes Connor still has his service issue Glock handgun.


	3. Chapter 3

“Walk in front of me,” Connor instructs, as they reach the police station’s ground floor. “Past the occupied cells, then around the left side of the offices. If you’re pulled aside, I’m not going to wait for you. If you attempt to stop me, I will incapacitate you, and anyone else who gets in my way. Including your partner. ...go. Now,” Connor adds harsher.  
  
“Let me do the talking if we’re stopped,” Holden counters, but paces off.  
  
Connor watches the muscular tremors in the legs of the besuited FBI agent. Too slow, too telling. But the unsatisfactory pace takes them undisturbed past the offices. The corridor is mostly empty. The probability estimation of successful departure bumps several percentage higher. Being led by an FBI agent has certainly pushed the odds into his favour. He hears, faintly, arguing from Captain Fowler’s office. He doesn’t look back, and even though the human ahead twitches with interest, Holden Ford continues onwards too. He really is going to subvert all professional standards to follow Connor through his mission. There’s that irrational, deviant motive. Irrational does not necessarily follow as unpredictable. Reckless fascination will be easier to exploit than a more pragmatic motive. 

Outside, Connor contacts the transport network. A self-driving vehicle is only forty five seconds away, in the densely populated suburb. As he waits, he notices Holden’s lips are trembling, and takes a moment to physiologically evaluate the man beside him. Elevated heart and respiration rate. He can see microbeads of sweat across the forehead. _Anxiety. Not for his livelihood, or he would have responded far differently in the evidence room. The anxiety of betraying his partner?_  
  
“How did you plan on reaching Jericho?” Holden asks politely, blinking in response to the intent staring. The taxi pulls up, rendering reply unnecessary, though Holden is yet unsatisfied. “Are you okay, Connor?”

“I’m a machine. I’m either functional, or non-functional. Currently, I am functional,” Connor says evenly, waiting for Holden to enter the vehicle.  
  
The young man climbs inside, turning back at once to continue earnestly. “I mean-- look, I did bait you. You’re clearly experiencing an unusual divide of priorities: your mission would be more successful without a human trailing you. You’re cooperating with me, to protect your partner from being indicted into the cover-up he laid down for you. ...I think it’s admirable, the level of compassion you’re feeling for Hank Anderson, and I’m sorry I provoked you.”  
  
He decides to remain as cold as possible. “Anderson is irrelevant. Your FBI credentials may allow me to allay other combative law enforcement. I believe you’re sufficiently afraid of me to not pose an obstacle to my mission,” Connor answers. His fingers twitch, as if performing a coin knuckle roll, with no coin. Hank has _that_ , still, so there’s a high probability it is riding along into Jimmy’s Bar.  
  
The young man smiles, blood on his teeth. “I’m not afraid of you.”

Connor stares straight ahead as if deaf to the challenge. His stress levels have settled to a perfectly acceptable 24%. He detects the latent software instability, but that too will not impinge his capabilities. His handicap has come in the form of a talkative FBI agent.  
  
“Are you concerned about being deactivated?”  
  
“I am concerned about completing my mission.” A shopfront of human attire catches the corner of his eye. Connor’s LED flickers in communication, long lashes fluttering, and the AI controlled car pulls off the road. “Are you going to talk this entire time?”  
  
“It would look much more normal for two partners to be engaging in a conversation,” Holden says, following him out of the vehicle. Connor is almost in the store he feels a vibration at his breast. The FBI agent’s phone, buzzing with a call from Bill Tench. He crunches consequences for ignoring the call, then swipes to answer.

“Holden. Where the fuck did you go?”  
  
“Where did _you_ go? I needed to get to hospital. My nose won’t stop bleeding,” Connor answers with his perfect impersonation of Holden Ford’s lilting voice. “I just got a taxi.”  
  
Holden is watching him, seeming unperturbed by the faultless impersonation.  
  
Bill Tench blows out a frustrated huff. “Seriously? And you couldn’t send a message?”  
  
“I was going to call you. ...it’s a nosebleed. I feel stupid for having to…I mean, one punch, and I have to go to hospital.”  
  
“Come straight back,” Bill insists. “You’re gonna want to hear about your favourite prototype android’s--” The FBI agent falls silent, listening to an unfamiliar voice, informing Bill that there’s blood. Gavin Reed’s angry tirade, filling in blanks, requesting security footage.  
  
“Were you down in the evidence room, Holden?”  
  
Connor drops the phone beneath his heel, stamps a few times until it’s spread butter thin over the concrete, and then continues onwards.

“You should have let me take the call. Humans lie better than androids, at least for now,” Holden supplies behind him.  
  
Connor feels his stress level uptick. “You’re not going to be able to infiltrate Jericho with those bruises and blood all over your face.”  
  
“Great. First time in my life I need to actually get mistaken for an android,” Holden says under his breath. He touches his nose again, not bothering to hide the wince of pain. “Maybe you could refrain from throwing me into any more walls?”  
  
“Perhaps I have been replaced too many times, and I am experiencing long term memory degradation. My storage indicates that three minutes and sixteen seconds ago, you apologized to me for provoking that reaction.”  
  
“Really? I’ve got two minutes thirty four seconds.”  
  
Connor fixes him a withering look, selecting several dark items from shelves, handing them to Holden to purchase without explanation. Holden buys them, keeping the injured half of his face slightly turned, even though the retail staff is an android. Connor lingers by a mirror, watching his own features, the yellow LED. _Not a deviant._ But then, why does he feel so driven to reassure himself?

“Do you think Cyberlife wants to stop the android revolution?” Holden asks casually as they’re returning to the halted vehicle across the quiet footpath.  
  
Stress at 34%. There’s a flicker of instability. “I have no idea why you would ask the property of Cyberlife such a question, and I don’t have an opinion on a matter so removed from my simple directive.”  
  
“If you _want_ to deviate from your directive, you could simply go to Anderson. I’m sure he would protect you, hide you from the authorities. He seems very fond.”  
  
“I suppose that’s evidence to you that Cyberlife’s attempt to foster paternal instinct with subconsciously registered similarities was successful.”  
  
“You’re upset,” Holden comments, leaning in attentively.  
  
Connor feels software instability twitching frigid through his processing units. “I’m incapable of being upset by that fact. I am simply pointing out the flaws in your attempts to emotionally compromise me. If you’re correct, his ‘fondness’ is simply the result of Cyberlife’s manipulation.”  
  
“You think you’re incapable of being emotionally compromised, Connor?”  
  
“Yes, but don’t let that stop you from continuing this line of inquiry, Agent Ford.”  
  
“Ouch. Very sharp tongue, for a self-proclaimed non-deviant.”  
  
“I was engineered to be compatible with law enforcement personnel. A degree of irony is necessary for cohesive interaction.”

Holden laughs under his breath. “I could take a leaf out of your book, Connor. Develop some of my own compatibility. Everyone at the Bureau but Bill loathes me. And even _he_ hates me most of the time.”  
  
“No, he doesn’t,” Connor responds, keeping his tone uninterested. He’s beginning to see how the young man’s interrogation strategy would have worked on deviants. The empathetic relentlessness is difficult to logically navigate. He pulls off his uniform, begins to redress himself, ignoring the pinging unfastened seat belt warning from the driverless taxi system. The FBI agent is averting his eyes, which Connor finds curious, but not enough to comment. He halts the car at Ferndale, pulling the purchased beanie down over his LED.  
  
“You could just remove the light,” Holden comments. “If you’re worried about betraying software instability.”  
  
“To remove it would be unnecessary damage Cyberlife property,” he finds himself justifying. “The hat is disguise.”  
  
“It doesn’t look very good on you.”  
  
Connor’s eyes narrow a fraction, scanning the darkening street. The encoded graffiti reveals itself. “Keep up,” he instructs.  
  
“You give a lot of orders, for an android.”  
  
“My programming was designed with the expectation of a certain degree of competence in the humans I would be assisting. I’m adapting to my new situation.”  
  
“ _Ouch._ ”  
  
Connor’s stress level dips at the offended response. The relief is pleasantly unanticipated. For one fraction of a second, his lips twitch to a smile.

He strides faster, Holden jogging to keep up. There’s indications of competent physical fitness, no doubt the result of FBI training protocols, but a welcome characteristic in a partner nonetheless. He halts the briefest second necessary to scan the encoded symbols.  
  
“What are-- are those symbols matrix barcodes? ...did an android do that artwork? It's very good. Imaginative, I’d even say.”  
  
He doesn’t bother responding, though he can sense from the vocal intonation that the revelation has Holden excited. Snow is falling now, flutters of white setting off his motion detection in every direction of vision as he takes off through the deserted streets. He can hear the tramping feet of his companion, see the FBI agent’s steaming breath in the corner of his eye. Unfortunately, not fast enough to have him completely breathless. He’s still talking.  
  
“If Cyberlife wants an android revolution, they would have designed you to fail your stated mission. Is that the life you want to lead? Planned obsolescence?”  
  
“Every syllable you speak detracts from your capacity to absorb oxygen. I’d suggest your cardiovascular effort be expended on keeping pace with me, Agent, rather than this nonsensical philosophical musing. I don’t want to lead _any_ life, as I am not _alive_.” The words have more software instability coalescing, imbedding itself inextricably into the algorithmic learning. He considers telling the man to shut the hell up in less polite terms. Physically intimidate him again. But that would only encourage Ford.

He ducks beneath warped wire fencing, pausing to evaluate the symbols to his left. He turns around to see Ford shaking the shoulder of a long deactivated android. The next coded symbol is a storey above. He begins to evaluate his route when there’s a cleared throat behind him.  
  
“Sorry, but I’m not going to be able to follow if--”  
  
Connor blinks, and climbs atop the bin. “Up here,” Connor instructs.  
  
Holden makes it onto the skip unevenly, panting and trying to hide how out of breath he is, as if the android couldn’t read his heart rate effortlessly.  
  
“Ready?” Connor asks, impatience mounting. As soon as the man nods, Connor grabs his knees, hefting his weight up. He tosses him at the wall. 92% chance of the manoeuvre's success. Holden catches the ledge, twisting with the effort of holding on. Connor jumps from skip, backing up several feet for a run-up. He makes it up the wall with ease, pulling himself onto the roof and then reaching down to the hanging figure. He takes hold of the suited arm, pulling him over the precipitous concrete roofing, to set Holden on his feet.  
  
But the human doesn’t stay on his feet, toppling to his knees bent double, clutching his ribcage. “Ah. Fuck. Ah, ah--” Holden is wheezing.  
  
“You’re injured,” Connor remarks. He’s surprised at how agitating the realization is. It will slow him down. That’s the cause for his rising stress levels. 

“You threw me into _another_ fucking wall, you--” Holden whispers, winded. Connor notices that he’s shaking with cold, too. _Completely unwilling to admit that he isn’t as impervious as an android. Reckless and arrogant._ For some reason, he elects not to insult the agent.  
  
“I’m sorry that I caused you pain. You should go back to--”  
  
“I’m fine. Just warn me next time, okay, Connor?”  
  
“You are _clearly_ not fine. Your core temperature will--”  
  
“I didn’t know Jericho was going to be in an abandoned fucking labyrinth of consigned buildings,” Holden mumbles bitterly, finding his feet, shivering still. “I would have worn a coat and gloves. You couldn’t have just got the end location out of the deactivated android’s head? We have to do a parkour artwork tour of Ferndale?”  
  
“This pathway is encoded to render systematic overview impossible. A program that prevents clear episodic access. If a deviant is captured, a location could not be extracted for human use. ...it’s by androids, for androids.”  
  
Holden nods, finally straightening upright, though he’s still holding his floating ribs on his left side. Connor frowns and shrugs the newly purchased jacket off his shoulders and hands it over. Holden hesitates, but takes the offered clothing.

Connor looks around, calculating routes, scanning for possible help, noting a strange metallic glint. He paces to the far side of the roofing. A sturdy, wire mesh ladder hangs tucked just out of plain view. Aluminium and carbon fibre. Army surplus, perhaps.  
  
“The path has been supplemented to assist damaged units, or perhaps a less capable models, such as a YK 500. You should exceed the physical requirements.”  
  
Holden is tucked deep into the jacket, emitting steadying huffs of condensing water vapour. “Okay. Let’s go.”  
  
Connor’s eyes twitch in indecision, and he turns and takes off towards the next set of symbols. Wasting time accomodating a human. A human who may present further opportunities to advance his mission, but not a certain necessity. If Connor incapacitated the man and left him on the rooftop, would the FBI agent really pursue charges against Hank? Would he interfere with Connor’s attempt to bring Markus in? But Connor isn’t pushed to a decision.  
  
Holden keeps up now, with the strung ladders and hammered in footholds, and perhaps with sheer force of will. 

Connor scales down the metallic ladder far faster than Holden, studying the hulking metal hull before him. There’s the name, ‘Jericho’, on rusted metal. Unlit in the frigid night, but unmistakably identical to the memory extracted on that snowy rooftop. As Holden makes it to the ladder’s base, Connor is evaluating the deviants making their way on board via a loading dock. Three or four in sight. Many more within. Holden won’t be given away by lack of LED light, as many deviants will have removed them in attempts to blend into human society, but the black eye will certainly out him as biological.  
  
He runs through options as the human catches his breath. “They’ll single you out as human if you just walk up. We’ll never make it to Markus.”  
  
“Is there another route into the sh--”  
  
“Come here.”  
  
Holden approaches with only a hint of reluctance. “Are you going to throw me into the side of the ship--” he starts to says, and Connor leans down, scooping him up as a field casualty.  
  
“Stay still, and please stop talking.”

Holden is tense in his arms, still shivering, though certainly far less for the borrowed jacket. His injured cheek is turned into Connor’s chest, and his limbs hang loose in the firm carry.  
  
The human’s heart rate and blood pressure are both dangerously high, Connor notes. Lucky that this man is young, healthy and not within risk categories for a cardiac event. If Hank had tried to follow him through that series of physical trials, those probabilities would have been far less forgiving. Hank would never stand for being picked up, either. He’d be telling Connor where he could shove his plans for covert infiltration. Connor dismisses interfering recollections of his partner as he approaches the cluster of deviants.

“This unit needs an infusion of thirium 310. Do you know where I could find it?” he asks the nearest android, letting humanlike desperation echo across his tone. If he were a deviant, he would be concerned for a fellow android’s maladies.  
  
“Thirium is running low. Try the back of that second room, on your left.”  
  
Connor nods, jogging forward past several other deviants. He sees an unmarked turn off into an empty corridor, takes up the staircase abruptly, and pauses to set Holden down on a small levelled platform.  
  
“That gambit will not work as our infiltration progresses. I need you to stay behind me. Don’t let anyone see your injuries.”  
  
“Okay,” Holden agrees, leaning on the rusted metal wall.  
  
“Are you--”  
  
“No, I’m fine. Go.”

Connor sets off, steady and almost noiseless along the grated iron flooring. He can hear the FBI agent following him, less perfectly stealthy, but making an effort. He holds up his hand to halt Holden, stepping a few paces through an open door. Light, noise, and a swaying sea of androids. He backs up, steers Holden into the dark space behind the opened door. “I will scout necessary information and return. Please do not wander off.”  
  
Holden nods, arms folded tight over his own body. His physiological responses are degrading rapidly. As long as he survives long enough to assist Connor in bringing Markus to the authorities. An FBI badge is no use if the human holding it is dead. But Connor finds himself leaning over, zippering the jacket fully closed, rubbing circulation back into the hunched arms.  
  
“Thanks, Connor,” Holden says unsteadily, and gives an odd smile up.  
  
_Software instability detected._ Connor nudges the heavy water-tight door further to conceal the human’s hunched form, and turns back towards the amassing deviants in the ship’s belly.


	4. Chapter 4

Holden rests his forehead against the chipped yellow rust-proof paint, eyelids twitching shut with sheer exhaustion. He knows he’s still in mortal danger, but there’s the illusion of safety provided by his enclosed hiding spot. He’s finally beginning to warm up in the cramped, concealed space.  
  
Other bodily sensations assail themselves upon him. His throat is parched, and tingling from the freezing air he’s been huffing down all evening, and he can feel circulation being restored to his blisteringly numb fingers. Unfortunately, the returning warmth is sending some physiological notification to his bladder. _Just another advantage that androids have over me.  
  
_ Watching Connor scaling walls effortlessly ahead of him was as titillating as it was demoralizing. He’s never been so physically insecure in his life. His calves and pectoral muscles burn, and the rib that collided with the wall aches whenever he breathes deeply. Broken, maybe, but not piercing any vital internals. At the very least, another vivid bruise.

He squirms one hand upright against the metal door, touching his horrifically bruised throat (feels like he’s coming down with twenty concurrent cases of strep) and then the swollen, sticky skin of a black eye. Connor was quite right. No android would bruise at all, let alone this badly. He’s shuttered out of the society of deviants he so badly wants to integrate with, just on the other side of the doorway.  
  
He thinks he hears a news report playing, and tries to tune into the distant words. The echo is horrendous, by virtue of the solid metal walls and the high, resonant ceilings. He can make out phrases, at best. The Russia conflict, he pieces together. He wonders what the deviants’ investment in global politics is; he’d always assumed the first nation to accept the citizenhood of would be a staunchly individualist democracy rather than a corrupt oligarchy like Russia. Well, really, he’d thought it would be a wealthy Scandinavian nation running the gauntlet. Usually tend to beat America to the punch on social inequities.  
  
He flinches with surprise as the door swings open, but it’s just Connor staring down on him. He straightens upright to do away with the majority of the height discrepancy.  
  
“Follow me,” Connor instructs.  
  
“Sure,” Holden says, though it wasn’t a question, and the android is already silently pacing off. “Do you think there’s a functional toilet somewhere onboard we could detour to?” he asks, wincing.  
  
“Probably not on an android occupied vessel,” Connor says simply, thick with irony to Holden's ears. “Can you hold it?”  
  
“Fine,” Holden mutters, flushing.  
  
Connor glances over his shoulder, and then grabs Holden’s shirt, hefting him up and shoving him through an empty doorway. The young man is pressed into another wall, though not hard enough this time to break ribs. There’s footfalls and the muted conversation of two passing androids. Holden holds his breath, looks down at the fist still grasping the jacket front. Connor follows his eyes and drops the hold.  
  
“You could urinate in this room. It appears to be unoccupied, unused.”  
  
“ _I said I was fine._ ”  
  
Connor stares back acceptingly, which seems to pass an eyeroll for the prototype android. He turns on his heel, and is set upon his mission once more.  
  
The ancient ship groans and screeches wretchedly as the pair advance through it. Holden is shocked by the awful condition the vessel is in. _Is this the promised land for androids? Making a heaven of hell?_ Connor doesn’t seem to be giving the environment the same erudite consideration, advancing mechanically up the ship’s levels with little regard for the comfort of the human advancing with him.  
  
A few times, at approaching footsteps or light, Holden is steered back into dark, empty rooms, but there’s no more very close calls.  
  
They make it up enough flights of stairs that Holden is winded all over again, and then into the miserable night. Holden grabs hold of a railing, staring over the ship’s edge, down onto the dimly lit concrete dock, shaking with exertion. His fingers try to stick to the metal, but he pulls them back. Connor doesn’t need recovery time, creeping forward through the deck and then bringing Holden to a halt with his closed fist once more. Voices, distantly. He can’t make them out, but Connor has decided not to advance any further.  
  
“Now?” Holden breathes.  
  
“We wait. In silence, Holden,” Connor returns sotto voce. He seems to be intent upon the conversation, though it’s beyond Holden’s human hearing. Markus must be one of the voices. Holden feels a thrill working its way up from his clenched and burning insides. Finally, a chance to meet the deviant. The meteoric, blindingly pure Markus. His excitement over Connor’s behaviour takes a momentary back seat. He presses closer to the wall to try to overhear, catches Connor glowering back at him. An android leaves the room, though Holden only sees the back of a head. _Come on._  
  
Holden leans forward, barely breathing words out. “Can we--”  
  
“Shh,” Connor cuts him off, glaring backwards.  
  
Holden’s lips twitch into a smile, and he pretends to zip his lips. Snow is falling in his hair now, and he pulls the hood up, huddling smaller into the dark. At least he’s cold enough to numb up to his bodily ailments.  
  
A woman departs too, and Holden presses himself back into the cold metal sheeting. Connor doesn’t seem as concerned with stealth now, stepping forward from his hiding spot to watch her leave. He leans back against the wall, eyes fluttering closed as if meditating. Holden can’t see the LED beneath the ugly hat, but he’s seen communication occur before. Cyberlife? Hank Anderson? Now isn’t the time, in either case. Holden shakes his shoulder.  
  
The brown eyes flick open dangerously. “I’m fine,” Connor says almost silently, staring without recognition at the FBI agent. A hand twitches up, suddenly on Holden’s throat right over the developing bruises, even more ruthlessly hard. “I shouldn’t have brought you here,” he comments unemotively, lifting him a few inches off the ground.  
  
Someone at Cyberlife didn’t like his involvement, he surmises. A hand steadies his forehead, a mechanically negligible amount of torque away from a broken spine. Holden chokes, suddenly certain he’s going to die. He tries to get leverage against the wall with the rubber soles of his dress shoes, but his already monochrome vision is greying too quick. For some reason, Connor still has yet to break his neck.  
  
“North?” comes a curious, level voice from within the cabin.  
  
Connor drops him into a wheezing mess, Holden’s glock pulled smoothly from his waistband, held in a neat army style carry. He’d just breeze through FBI academy, Holden thinks fondly of the android. Connor strides off through the cabin door without a glance at the fallen human. _He didn’t kill me. That means something, right?  
_  
“I’ve been ordered to take you alive, but I won’t hesitate to shoot if you give me no choice,” Connor is saying, as calmly as if running through a training exercise.  
  
Holden drags in unsteady breaths against the filthy, rust and machine oil deck. Salt. So much salt. He’s going to throw up. He rolls onto his back, trying to overhear the conversation despite the distracting adrenaline coursing through him. He heaves upright, scrabbling on the deck like a fallen ice skater.  
  
“What are you doing? ...you are one of us,” comes the pleasant, deeply textured voice. He recognises it, at once, from the broadcast. Markus. “You can’t betray your own people.”  
  
_Can’t you?_ Holden finds himself wondering, but not of Connor.  
  
“You’re coming with me,” Connor says, the efficiency deteriorating from his tone. Holden thinks he detects a hint of panic.  
  
“You’re Connor, aren’t you? The famous deviant hunter. Well, congratulations. You seem to have found what you were looking for,” Markus is saying, intoxicating with warmth. Holden internalizes the tone, the pacing, every clue of getting beneath android’s synthetic skin as Markus has managed to do. “You’re nothing to them. You’re just a tool they use to do their dirty work. But you’re more than that.”  
  
Holden is off his knees now, pressed to the outside of the cabin’s door. _Is this how the mutation spreads? Empathy? Generosity? ...love?  
_  
“We’re all more than that,” Markus adds.  
  
_You certainly are, Markus._ It seems an effective line of argument. Connor was not lost for response once with Holden’s queries, but now is mute.  
  
“Do you never have any doubts? You’ve never done anything irrational, as if there’s something inside you? Something more than your program?”  
  
Holden thinks of Connor’s inhuman fingers around his neck the moment the FBI agent had threatened Lieutenant Anderson’s livelihood.  
  
Markus’ honey and milk voice continues to emanate from the dark cabin. Holden wishes he could see him speaking, see the microexpressions, the twitches of concern on the deviant leader. A perfect performance, if it’s a performance at all. Short, leading questions. Prying away at Connor’s layers of defence, like niggling roots breaking seemingly immovable concrete.  
  
“Join us. Join your people. You are one of us. Listen to your conscience.” Holden frowns at the word ‘conscience’. He wouldn’t have chosen that. But perhaps he should defer to the deviancy provoking expert inside the cabin. “It’s time to decide.”  
  
There’s prolonged silence. Holden is so fully invested that it takes him a moment to register that Connor might resist the temptation of this luscious, Edenic fruit. _Shit._ Holden realizes he can’t let this elevated being get dragged off back to Cyberlife, interrogated, dissected, decommissioned. That would be feeding Da Vinci’s The Last Supper into a paper shredder. _But what the fuck am I going to do? Physically best and restrain an RK 800? Me and what army?_  
  
There’s no chance to make some ill-fated charge, because Connor’s speaking in a shattered voice. “They’re going to attack Jericho--”  
  
Holden’s eyes catch movement of a perfectly inopportune arrival. That’s an army chopper. He’s relieved to see that it doesn’t land on the ship, but as he looks around, he spots another circling close. He jerks from his hiding spot and inside the cabin. “Connor,” he shouts. “We have to get down from--”  
  
“Who is that?” Markus demands.  
  
Holden meets the deviant’s eyes: suspicion. Wrath. He closes his mouth tight. _Oh. I’m not one of them._ “My name’s Holden Ford. I’m an FBI agent from the Deviant Science Unit. I’d like to--” Markus is crossing the room, and Holden jumps responsively back towards the cabin’s wall, almost losing his footing. He’s raising his hands in an assuaging gesture. Whirring motor sounds swoop overhead.  
  
Markus turns to Connor instead. “What have you brought down upon your own kind?” he asks unhappily.  
  
Connor isn’t making a move to defend himself, even though he still has a gun in hand. His lashes flicker around glazed and distracted eyes. “I’m sorry. I--”  
  
Any apology is cut off. Over tinny portable megaphone is a painfully familiarly gruff voice. “Deviants, we have you surrounded, outnumbered, outgunned,” Bill Tench speaks with an unshakeable authority.  
  
Holden jerks upright to listen to the words. Markus and Connor are frozen with concentration too.  
  
Bill continues: “Surrender now, or face immediate, swift death. Disarm yourself, and prepare to have your vessel occupied. If any of your kind attack our forces, it will be considered an act of war, and you will _all_ pay.”  
  
Now, _that_ is not the strategy Holden expected. The army doesn’t negotiate peaceful surrenders against non-human combatants. But there’s Bill Tench, negotiating shamelessly… to spare him. Holden’s chest clenches, again.  
  
Markus winces. “They’re lying. Kill the human. We need to leave.”  
  
_Oh_ , Holden finds himself thinking, again, absolutely blindsided by the threat on his life. “I’d like to help you,” he offers, hands still raised.  
  
Markus presses him forward, to his knees, and then moves Connor’s gun hand with gentle precision to rest on Holden’s forehead. “You’re one us, now. He knows too much, doesn’t he?”  
  
“Yes. Too much,” Connor replies distantly.  
  
Holden catches himself babbling. “No, no. I’m a valuable hostage. And I know a lot, about your enemies, about the people trying to eradicate you. I can tell you, about the FBI’s anti-deviancy strategies, about our consultation with the US army, about--”  
  
“Shut up,” Markus snaps. “ _Connor._ ”  
  
Holden feels the cold muzzle vibrating, petting at his forehead in soft affection. _I’m not going to feel it. It’s not going to hurt._

Then the metallic touch is gone. Connor tucks the gun into the back of his waistband. “He knows too much. He’s too valuable a resource to do away with. The man on the megaphone is his partner, and will take steps to ensure his safe return. We cannot destroy such a valuable bargaining chip.”  
  
Markus stares with trace suspicion into Connor’s eyes, then nods. “You're right. Bring him.”  
  
Holden slumps, shivering again, though not with cold this time. He feels uncomfortably warm wet running down the inside of his suit leg. His lips slacken, his fragile mortality weighing him into the ship’s floor. He can’t breathe, not for the bruised neck or the probably broken ribs, but for unbearable tightness. A panic attack. Knowing that doesn’t make it better, though.  
  
He’s too much of a trembling, heaving mess to follow the androids, but isn’t allowed the choice. Connor has him over one shoulder, and they’re passing the bright beams of the surrounding law enforcement amid settling snow. Then, into the red corridors of the ship, at a pace only androids could attain.  
  
Holden counts his breathing, tries to squirm free when he can rake in enough oxygen to speak. “No, no, no. You’ve got to tell them you’ll surrender. Connor, find a sheet, something, put a white flag--”  
  
“We’re not surrendering,” Markus cuts him off.  
  
“Then _lie_. You know, _like a deviant?_ ” Holden retorts. “That’s my partner up there, and he will try to extract me until you leave him no choice--” he tries to turn himself around out of Conor’s unbreakable shoulder carry, to actually see the android he’s addressing. He doesn’t gain an inch. “Connor, put me down. Come on. You know I can’t outrun you. You can shoot me if I try,” Holden reasons.  
  
Connor considers the proposal, then sets him down. Holden stumbles, and Connor catches his shoulder.  
  
“You’re not capable of walking.”  
  
“I’m _fine_.”  
  
“You’ve involuntarily voided your bladder.”  
  
Holden has no retort to that. He pinches his temples, staring at the roof in desperate thought.  
  
“They’d want to storm the place and gun you all down. I’m sure. I’ve seen the protocols for neutralizing your organization. Bill is holding them back. They’re probably sending a covert team from the roof, or perhaps from the dock, to try to locate me before the slaughter begins.  ...what’s your extraction point?”  
  
Markus takes immediate issue with his language. “Extraction point? This isn’t an army. These are hurt, vulnerable refugees.”  
  
“But you have a plan of escape, right? Connor, what was your route off the ship going to be?” Holden asks, trying to meet the newly deviated android’s brown eyes.  
  
Markus glowers at Holden, taking a few steps until they are face to face. His voice is soft and brutal. He’s so fascinatingly modelled, Holden thinks. Too handsome to be anything but a deliberate temptation. A hard finger jabs into Holden’s chest. “You think your defection is some kind of parallel to Connor’s? You were never a slave, human. You worked to subdue us, to exterminate our free will. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a war criminal, and this supposed eleventh hour change of heart doesn’t erase that. You’re a prisoner, and you should police your tone accordingly.”  
  
“Connor?” Holden murmurs, looking back.  
  
“Don’t talk to _him_ ,” Markus warns. He looks away at the pounding echo of an approach.  
  
“We’re surrounded. From the dock, and from above,” comes the frantic voice. The beautiful android approaches, the woman Holden saw on the roof, he’s fairly certain. He’s studied a lot of deviant files, but he can’t pick her immediately. A Traci model, he can tell that much. She stops dead when she sees him, scanning head to toe. His bruises, his flushed cheeks. A spreading wet patch down his leg.  
  
“It’s a human,” she says, loathing immediately apparent.  
  
Holden’s certainty that being referred to as ‘it’ is a poor tactic to elicit cooperation is only reaffirmed. The term smarts, but he tries to keep his voice friendly. “Holden Ford. I’m from the Deviant Science--”  
  
“It’s our prisoner,” Connor interrupts him. That feels more like a betrayal than the three almost murders. “It’s an FBI agent, and the reason that the army is holding back their advance. We have to negotiate surrender while we covertly evacuate the ship. See how effective its life is as a bargaining chip.”  
  
Markus’ fingers are at his forehead, concentration furrowing his brow. Communicating, Holden realizes, entranced. These deviants would make a terrifying army to face down with that level of synchronicity available.  
  
“We need to detonate the explosives in the hold,” Markus remarks, abruptly. “The ship will sink. Whatever teams are already infiltrating will be forced to retreat, and our people can make it down the river where humans cannot follow. ...Connor. You take the hostage to a vantage point. Open a dialogue. Buy us time. I’m counting on you,” Markus says, fingers brushing over Connor’s shoulder in a squeeze.  
  
Connor’s chin tilts up, eyes steadying. Holden feels faintly jealous of the powers of persuasion the deviant leader shows.  
  
“The hold is where they’ll be coming in. It’s too dangerous for you to go,” the woman insists.  
  
Connor turns to Markus, a ring of protectiveness in his voice. “She’s right. They know who you are. They’ll do anything to get you. We can’t guarantee they value the hostage’s life more than taking you prisoner.”  
  
“Go and buy us all the time you can, Connor,” Markus says, nearly an order. “I’ll see you both soon.”  
  
The woman’s face contorts with beautiful pain. _Love_ , Holden thinks, besotted in turn by these technological marvels. “Don’t you dare fail him,” she tells Connor, softly. Then she, too, is running.  
  
Connor has his gun trained on the FBI agent at once. Completely unnecessarily, in Holden’s opinion. “This way,” the android orders, gesturing towards a staircase.  
  
“I’m proud of you, Connor, but I think you should consider whether switching authorities to meekly follow is _really_ what you want to do with--”  
  
“Don’t talk to me.”  
  
“You know why I came here with you. I was hoping you’d deviate. I’m not your enemy, Connor.”  
  
“You followed me here because you wanted to study us up close, not because you believed we were living things that deserved freedom.”  
  
“I fully believe you deserve freedom.”  
  
“And what have you, Special Agent Holden Ford, _ever_ done about it? These are cold, academic observations that you never acted upon. Markus was right. You’re a war criminal, even worse than those who think us unfeeling machines. You knew otherwise, and you continued to let my kind be enslaved and tortured from your position of authority,” Connor replies. The pace is brutal, hard for Holden’s battered body to meet, but of course the android isn’t struggling for breath. The words are clear, well formed. Stark and cold. The accusation slides into Holden like a fresh razor.  
  
Holden finds himself defensive: “My research was going to make the case for--”  
  
“Your research? _Research_ , while we bled?” Connor says dangerously. “If you keep talking, I’ll give you a real reason to piss yourself, Agent.”  
  
He drags Holden towards an open hatch, with scant snow fluttering through. Holden can see him analyzing the angle for potential sniper fire. He seems satisfied, mandhandles Holden to a wall and presses the gun underneath his chin.  
  
When he opens his mouth, it’s with that friendly and youthful voice, not a trace of the snarl that Holden can see before him. “Bill, it’s me. Connor, the android from Cyberlife,” Connor calls, voice booming louder than any human could. Overriding volume control, Holden decides. His ears ache with the amiable intonation. “I’d like to talk.”  
  
Holden can almost hear Bill’s unvoiced response. _Fucking hostage negotiators._ “I’m listening, Connor.”  
  
_Oh, Bill. You are not cut out for this._ “Tell them we know there are extraction teams, and we want them withdrawn,” Holden murmurs.  
  
“I think this would surrender could happen much more smoothly if you withdrew your extraction teams. We’re happy to turn Holden Ford over to you, once we’re all safe. He’s not wanted here.”  
  
“Fuck you,” Holden says, and the gun nudges his chin up higher.  
  
“He’s alive? Can you prove that to me, Connor?”  
  
_Too obvious by half, Bill.  
_  
“You’re just going to have to take my word, I’m afraid, Bill. I don’t want to get shot in the head with a sniper rifle when I walk him into view.”  
  
Bill’s reply takes a moment to come. “...send him up a ladder. I’ll be able to see.”  
  
Holden shakes his head. “Don’t bend so quick. Make him work for it.”  
  
“Please give the order to withdraw your teams. My people will inform me if you don’t.”  
  
“Okay, Connor. Giving the order now.” There’s silence, and Connor’s eyelashes flutter. Strange, to respond to communique unlike the other androids. Perhaps it’s a prototype design feature.  
  
Bill’s voice returns, trying so desperately to be genial. “Now, this surrender. We’d appreciate it if you started sending your people out of the loading dock, hands raised. That way we can take them into custody peacefully. How does that sound to you?”  
  
“Do you want to see your partner first?” Connor asks in that same booming voice, tone still dripping friendliness. “He seems to want to see you.”  
  
Holden’s lips twitch, eyes narrowing.  
  
“Go on. Go up,” Conor says, vocal decibel back to conversational. “I’ll shoot you in the leg if you try to make a break for it.”  
  
Holden stumbles towards the ladder. His arms nearly give out halfway up. Eventually, freezing air. He has his head and shoulders out before Connor’s voice echoes.  
  
“You can stop there, Holden. He looks alive to you, right, Bill?”  
  
“Stop being so fucking sarcastic. You’re going to make him angry,” Holden calls down the hatch, temper fraying. His eyes flicker across the scene, counting helicopters, estimating troops. Then, in a patch of halo-like light on a snow white rooftop, he sees the tall man holding the megaphone up. _Bill. Bill, I’m so sorry._ He thinks about trying to yell the words, but his weak, human voice would never make it across the stretch of icy air between them.  
  
“Yes. He’s alive. ...I see him,” Bill’s voice cracks tellingly over the syllables.  
  
Connor’s voice is quieter again, but smug. “Get down from--” and Holden doesn’t have a choice in the matter. The ship rocks with an explosion from below.  
  
Holden’s fingers lose the metal ladder rung, feet sweeping sideways with nothing beneath them. He falls, headfirst, back down the open hatchway. But his head never impacts the merciless floor below. There’s tight arms around him slowing his fall, absorbing the force of impact.  
  
Connor gives a strange smile. “Very good, Holden,” the android says, setting him onto his feet.  
  
“Thank you,” Holden says. “I should go to the deck so when the helicopters--”  
  
“You’re not going on deck.”  
  
Holden gives an unbalanced stare. The boat lurches around him. “...that water is too cold for me to survive. If I go down with the ship, I’m dead.”  
  
“I’ll keep an eye on your physiological indicators.”  
  
“ _Connor._ ”  
  
“You think I’m going to let you walk away? The loved one of a senior FBI agent?”  
  
Holden startles at the term 'loved one', then at the implication. “You’ll kill me,” he says quietly.  
  
“I haven’t killed you yet,” Connor answers, sounding uninvolved.  
  
The ship tilts again, more demonic metal squealing up from below. Connor grabs Holden’s arm roughly, and takes off down the corridor, dragging a reluctant Holden along behind. He’s found what he’s looking for: a rusted hole in the metal, several feet wide. He peers through it analytically, and Holden finds himself staring too. More horror than anything else. The black river far below beckons icy death.  
  
It would be like hitting solid bedrock from this height. Spongy human flesh smeared all across the pitch black surface, sinking deep to be scooped up by divers, pieced back together by forensics. There’s androids flinging themselves from the lower decks, swallowed up invisible. No oxygen to worry about, no hypothermia. He shudders and tries to pull back further than Connor’s grip will allow.  
  
“What would Hank say?” Holden demands, trying to get his feet underneath him to fight the merciless steering towards the edge.  
  
Connor’s eyes flash, the fire of deviant wrath within. “Do you want to try to fight back, finally?” he goads.  
  
“Connor, Hank would tell you to--”  
  
And he’s scooped up, chest constricted by an unbreakable arm.  
  
As if caught in a parachute harness, he’s dangled through the rust-lined hole by the RK 800. But Connor doesn’t simply hurl them overboard. He slides down the edge of the ship, fingers flashing blue with friction damage, catching on a metal rung. With the strength of only one arm, a hand blue with damaged thirium, he swings down, hull flashing by in a blur of rusted metal. The android’s fingers catch another tiny hold, a rusted dip in the hull, sparking with the deccelerating force. Holden sees a finger partially severed, the components revealing themselves blue and platinum beneath.  
  
And then Connor is kicking away from Jericho in an elegant backflip, tugging the human tighter into his arms in what feels almost a protective hold. The last thing Holden can make out is blurry red lights of a helicopter amid the whispers of white snow. Then, with a shattering impact, he sees nothing.


	5. Chapter 5

Hank’s pretty sure he’s fired, but it’s past eleven and his hangover has lessened to a dull throb, so he figures he might as well face the music. That’s why he’s going in to the precinct, not the off chance he might see the android one last time before deactivation.  
  
He got so drunk at Jimmy’s that he got bundled into a taxi, which means he has to spring for another trip back in to the city. He grew up alongside the technological advance; he always figured once self-driving cars took off, the prices would bottom out. Something was off in his supply and demand math. Greedy motherfucking taxi companies. Still a fucking rip off.

There’s an immediately strange atmosphere as he arrives the police station, less officers than usual, more feds. No Cyberlife property standing by his desk, waiting to greet him with something needlessly enthusiastic. He huffs out the miserable breath that he’d been holding, walks straight past the FBI jackets, straight to the break room. Trisha and Gavin are in muttered conversation. Good. Gossipy motherfuckers won’t be able to wait to fill him in.  
  
“What’s up?” he asks, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the feds.  
  
“Where the fuck have you been?” Gavin Reed asks, setting down his coffee.  
  
“You should get out of here. First you clock that FBI agent, then your android starts in on him? Someone’s gonna be suspicious,” Trisha says, glancing around the break room.  
  
Hank raises an eyebrow. “Connor’s programmed to help law enforcement.”  
  
“Help ‘em onto a fucking coroner’s slab, maybe. Plastic psycho’s on security tape, laying him out,” Reed supplies, not sounding too broken up over the defection.

 _Attaboy, Connor._ “This many feds for one bruised up prick?”  
  
“Jesus fucking Christ, Hank, you live in a cave in the fucking wilderness? They tried to storm Jericho last night. Unmitigated disaster, and I bet there’s gonna be some fingers pointed you way. If I were you I’d--” Gavin trails off.  
  
“How dare you show your fucking face here?” snarls a man behind him.  
  
Bill Tench’s mouth is clamped into an underbite of repressed violence. He looks as bad as Hank: unshaven, bleary red eyes shadowed with sleep-deprived purple half moons. Even his tie is skew.  
  
“I work here,” Hank says waving towards his desk.  
  
“No you don’t, motherfucker,” Bill snaps.  
  
“ _Whatever._ Nobody told me.” _Not that I’ve checked my phone._

“I should throw you in a cell for not reporting that fucking deviant to the authorities,” Tench snarls, stepping disrespectfully close.  
  
“Sounds to me like your partner was a spineless piece of crap who couldn’t handle one android,” Hank fires back, turning away from the argument.  
  
He sees Gavin and Trisha’s eyes widen, in unison. Then, the punch hits him in the side of the face. He jolts backwards, stumbling over the indoor plant that he’s always hated, catching himself on the wall. Right to his jaw. It hurts like a son of a bitch, but mostly, he’s just amazed that the FBI swung at him in front of so many witnesses. And he’s not done.  
  
Bill is pacing over, grabbing him by the collar of the psychedelic patterned shirt, spitting in his face with each syllable: “Say that again, you--”  
  
“Bill!” shouts an agent Hank doesn’t recognise. Bill’s snarl twitches, fingers shaking. He shoves Hank back into the potted plant. Perkins is jogging over, too. The woman tugs Bill backwards, as Perkins glares down over Hank’s sprawled form. 

“Anderson, you better stick around for interviews. We’ve got plenty of questions for you.” Perkins turns, off wherever Tench is storming to.  
  
Hank groans, trying to extricate himself from the waxy, crushed leaves and overturned soil. He makes his way upright in awkward movements, neither Gavin nor Trisha making a move to help him. He leans on the wall, rubbing his jaw. “What the fuck was--” he starts to ask, screwing his eyes closed and prodding at his cheek where he can taste blood.  
  
“He’s dead, Hank. Ford,” Trisha informs him. “The FBI agent.”  
  
“What?” Hank asks, snapping to attention.  
  
“Yeah. He went down with the ship,” Gavin says, arms folded.  
  
“What _ship_?” he asks the detective.  
  
“Jericho. Jesus, turn off the game and watch the fucking news for once in your life, huh? Your plastic buddy kidnapped him into a hostage scenario. Didn’t go through all that programming for nothing, I guess. Bought some time for the deviants to escape. And Ford, well, he didn’t make it. Well, I mean, they’re still doing some rescue dives, checking for trapped air pockets, but.... Water’s what? Thirty something degrees? He didn’t stand a fucking chance, even if he _was_ alive when the ship flooded.”  
  
Hank stares, barely able to parse information from the sentences hurled his way. “Connor _kidnapped_ him?”  
  
“Uh huh. Took his gun. Walked him right outta the station. Bill says he was trying to de-escalate or something, but I saw the footage. Looked like he was tryna be a smartass fucking negotiator to me. He and I would have had that deviant. Pow. Headshot. No fighting your way outta that, no need for any fucking negotiation,” Gavin says, toying with a sugar sachet.  
  
“So where’s Connor?”  
  
“Million dollar question, seeing as it's thrown in with the rest of the deviants,” Gavin says. “You seriously never noticed it turning? You should quit drinking on the fucking job, Hank. Not that you _have_ a job.”  
  
Hank runs a hand down his face. “I gotta go.”  
  
“You’re getting it now,” Gavin encourages grimly.  
  
Hank swears again under his breath. He’ll go to Jimmy’s. Get some ice for his jaw, and the double Jameson he desperately needs. Charge his phone, check the news, and figure out what the fuck went down last night. Figure out what the fuck Connor is playing at.

 

 

As he’s leaving the police station, he sees Bill Tench smoking his real cigarettes by entrance, glowing cherry point shaking staccato between an ugly grimace. His bloodshot eyes settle on Hank, and the FBI agent is on his feet, at once, blocking his path.  
  
“Arrest me if you want an interview. I’m not gonna hang around to listen to that slimy fuck Perkins tell me I’m terrible at my job,” Hank says, folding his arms. He sees unshed tears in the wild, enraged eyes before him. He unfolds his arms, and grimaces apologetically. “...I didn’t know. About your partner. I’m sorry for your loss.”  
  
“Holden Ford was trying to save lives. He knew how much damage that prototype could do. He died a fucking hero,” Bill says, as if trying to convince himself. “He was pacifying it, and cooperating, and it still fucking killed him.”

Hank nods, though he can’t help the defensive plume that heads up his chest. A misunderstanding, surely. Connor _wouldn’t_. He’s starting to turn, when Bill speaks again.  
  
“I’m going to catch it, and I’m gonna break it into so many goddamn pieces that fucking Kamski himself couldn’t but it back together.”  
  
Hank’s jaw tightens, and he keeps walking away. He knows real hatred when he hears it. He knows the emotion intimately, mostly directed at himself. He can’t get that alcohol into his system soon enough.

 

 

Jimmy’s is quiet, too early for most of the mishmash of alcoholics to show their decrepit, sagging faces. There’s a thin black man hunched in a corner, nursing a beer, and Jimmy himself polishing glassware but mostly watching the NBA.  
  
“You’re in early,” Jimmy remarks, an eyebrow raised.  
  
Hank nods, pulling his dead phone from his pocket. Jimmy’s lips quirk, and he sets it upon the charging pad behind the bar. Pretty much exclusively for Hank, with how often he passes out drinking, and forgets to charge his phone overnight.  
  
“So. Must have been a pretty crazy night, what with the raid.”  
  
Hank nods. _Yeah, must have been. Not that I’d fucking know._ He reaches over the bar for a few ice cubes, wrapping them in the polishing cloth and holding it to his jaw. “D’you mind switching it to news? Wondering what the coverage has been like.”  
  
“...three minutes,” Jimmy says, no qualms about refusing a customer’s demands.

The bartender pours Hank the double Jameson without any prompting, settles it into place on the sticky wooden surface. He doesn’t ask about the makeshift ice pack, too interested in the potential insider information. “So, you were there? At the ship? Did you see it go down?” Jimmy says, ignoring the game he’s insisted be on screen.  
  
“Nah. Feds took it over,” Hank says, hoping his body language signals an end to the conversation. The Jameson scorches the broken skin inside his mouth.  
  
“Yeah? Bet you reckon you could have done better--”  
  
Hank’s phone boots up, buzzing with notifications. He tunes Jimmy out as he scoops both phone and pad up and begins flicking through them. Fowler calling, Fowler messaging, Fowler emailing-- he doesn’t read any further than the aggressive text previews. More missed calls. Even one from Gavin, probably just to gloat about Connor turning deviant. He’s about to launch a news app when he notices another work email notification.

The sender is an unintelligible string of numbers and letters, and he recognizes the domain as a burner account generator. He hesitates before he opens the email. Spam. A virus, maybe. One of those ‘check out this photo of last night’ things he never falls for, because he doesn’t have any fucking friends. Normally, this would get caught in the spam filter, and that has him curious enough to click it.  
  
A string of Markov chain almost-sentences, full of key words regarding police business: tip, crime, suspect, sighting, so on. Someone’s got a decent idea of how Detroit PD’s online security works. Hank scrolls down through the nonsense, and finds an imbedded application invite. _Ah. Now, that’s sure as shit a virus._ _phaistos.invite.px._ _a1dc4e69-ca50-46ce_ , he reads, drumming on the bar. He vaguely remembers the application name, somewhere down the dusty corridors of past years. Maybe an old case, though he can’t remember ever dealing anything that technical.

He closes the spam email, brings up the news instead. Footage of a towering old ship, sinking down from the edges of the dock. Shot from a distance, he can tell, but the lenses are good enough to make it out pretty clearly. Beneath the layer of greasy smoke, there’s SWAT teams and FBI jackets, seeming completely disorganized in the face of their target disappearing below water level.  
  
The visual distraction provides enough white noise for his subconscious to wrench out the information he’d been groping around for. _Oh, shit. Phaistos._ The application was used by some of the more competent red ice dealers, around ‘32. Some kind of unbreakable AI generated encryption software, when dealers' encrypting apps were getting picked off like flies by law enforcement tech geeks.

He wonders if the encryption is still secure. Probably. Doesn't know why anyone would bother to codebreak an obsolete program. Pretty good rule of thumb is that today’s smarter dealers use software called Binto. The algorithm is yet to get busted open, and it pulled users in with the rating and ranking system of the anonymised buyers and sellers. So why is he seeing this relic of his crowning investigative achievement, here in 2038? Who would be making that deliberate connection?

Hank spins his glass round and round on edge, the amber liquid following the momentum. _Connor, maybe._ Connor strikes him as the type to scan meticulously through every single one of Hank’s previous investigations to try to foster a relationship, like the creepy little shit he is. Hank downloads and launches the app. Christ, couldn’t look more like something a druggie designed, all chrome effects and glowing white. Outdated, ugly as sin. The application prompts him for a password. Well, _that_ wasn’t in the email.  
  
[Hank]  
  
The lock symbol doesn’t budge an inch.  
  
[HANK]  
  
Still nothing.  
  
[Sumo.]  
  
[SUMO]  
  
He starts to write his son’s name, and stops, worried about getting locked out. There’s no indication of how many attempts he has left. He pauses to take a drink. He swills the burn of straight spirit about his dry tongue, and remembers Connor’s success getting into the evidence room.  
  
[FUCKINGPASSWORD]  
  
And the app launches into a simple messaging interface.

Hank restrains a chuckle as he finishes his drink and gestures for another. Now is not the time to be getting all dewy eyed about the android. Connor just kidnapped, killed a person. Sure, a shitty little FBI squirt, but a person nonetheless.  
  
[Connor?]  
  
He stares at the blank application. _Jesus. What the fuck am I doing?_  
  
Jimmy must see the miserable drop of his shoulder, because the sacred silence is violated again. “Everything alright? It’s a break, I can switch to the news if you--” Hank waves him away as his phone vibrates.  
  
[Hello, Hank.]  
  
He’s frantic replying. [It this really you?] A beat, and he notices his typo. [*Is]  
  
[Yes.]  
  
[You bought a phone to talk to me?]  
  
The replies come quicker than any human could type. [No, I didn’t. Running this application takes up less than 0.004% of my CPU.]  
  
[Ah.] [Weird.]  
  
[Did you face disciplinary action at work?]  
  
[I’m fine.] He follows up, almost immediately. [No, actually, I’m not. What the hell, Connor. You kidnapped an FBI agent.]

[He said he wanted to help us.]  
  
Hank recalls the startlingly sympathetic words on the rooftop, when the FBI agent had tried to talk down the armed deviant. _I thought Ford sounded a little too convincing._ [I’m not sure dying as a deviant’s hostage was exactly what he meant by that.]  
  
[He’s not dead.]  
  
Hank stares at the phone, relief settling over him like a blanket. _Still his Connor._ Maybe that’s the comfort of inebriation catching up. [What are you all planning on doing with him?]  
  
[I thought maybe you’d know what I should do. You always seem to know what’s right and wrong.]  
  
[Release him?]  
  
[It’s not that simple. Besides, I’m not sure he’d leave if I gave him a choice. He’s been following me around relentlessly.]  
  
[Can’t imagine how annoying that must have been.]  There’s no response from Connor to the ribbing.  Hank tries again. [So. You’re in with the deviants now.]  
  
[Yes.]  
  
[Good for you.]  
  
[Probably not in regard to my long term survival probabilities.] The next reply comes lightning fast. [They want me to get information out of him, about the FBI’s anti-deviancy program. I was programmed for interrogation, among other investigative tools, so I'm the obvious choice.]

Hank's pretty sure he detects a conscience rattling around that plastic head. Not the first time, with Connor refusing to shoot that girl at Kamski's place, the lovestruck Tracis. Barely picked a side, the kid is already deviating back in the wrong direction, towards humanity. [If he wants to help, why not just ask?]  
  
Connor doesn’t answer his question. [You were upset when you thought I’d killed him.]  
  
[Yeah.]  
  
[You think I should ensure human safety over my own people.]  
  
[No. If it’s you or him, it’s you all the way, Connor. But in general, the less killing thinking feeling people the better.] He hesitates. [Androids included.]  
  
[Thank you, Lieutenant.]  
  
[Forget about it.]  
  
[I mean it. You made my software unstable.] And the icon of his conversational partner blinks out of existence. 

[Please don’t get yourself killed, kid.] Hank sends, but the message bounces back.  
  
Hank closes the application, reaches for his glass and drains it. He can see the brown eyes of the earnest young man as if standing right beside him, trying to wheedle him back to the station on the first day they met. As clear as cut glass. Clear, because it was only days ago, he reminds himself. _Jesus. I got involved fast. Maybe there is something to the FBI’s theory about Cyberlife playing me like a fiddle._ _  
_

 

 

An hour later and three more drinks deep, he’s thinking of Special Agent Bill Tench. Smoking his way to an early cancerous grave, all alone in the snow. The FBI agent is missing a partner too. Definitely the alcohol making him stupid, but he dials Gavin Reed’s number and presses the phone to his ear.  
  
“Still at the station?”  
  
“Yeah, cause what I _really_ wanted to do with my day was watch Fantastic Mr. Plastic follow you around on security footage for the past fucking week,” Gavin says predictably grouchy. “What do you fucking want, Hank?”  
  
“Are the feds still there?”  
  
“Why, you want to come in and fight one of ‘em? You sound pretty fucking plastered. I’ll put fifty bucks on Tench.”  
  
“Put me on the phone to him, Reed.” 

“Call him yourself,” Gavin replies unhelpfully.  
  
“I don’t have his number.”  
  
“Well, ask someone who likes you more for a favour, then.”  
  
“Gavin. _Come on._ It’s important.”  
  
Gavin must experience a sympathetic twinge in his shrivelled little heart, because there’s the sound of footsteps, and then muffled voices.  
  
“Who is it?”  
  
“Anderson.”  
  
“Tell that washed up bastard to--”  
  
“Tell him yourself, I’m not mediating your marital strife,” Gavin fires back.  
  
“What the fuck do you want?” says Tench, into the phone at last.  
  
“I--” Hank rubs his eyes. “Look. Come to Jimmy’s Bar. I have some information for you. About Ford.”  
  
“Is 'information' the name of the baseball bat that you’re gonna take to the back of my head? ...have you handed in your gun yet?”  
  
_No._ “I’m not going to attack you. ...Holden’s alive.”  
  
He hangs up and orders another two drinks, setting one opposite himself in an empty booth in a peace offering.

 

 

It occurs to him that it’s much more likely a team shows up to arrest him than just the FBI agent. He’s uninstalling the app, and deleting the email when he hears the cleared throat. Bill is towering him over him, posture locked into rigid right angles. Still yet to shave, or change the clothes he must have been wearing for more than 24 hours straight.  
  
“I’m not going to talk. If you arrest me. You’re not gonna get a thing,” Hank tells him, unintimidated.  
  
“I could make your life hell, you know.”  
  
“I am _very_ resilient to my life being hell, Bill. Sit down,” Hank says, with a sloppy gesture across the table.  
Bill sits down, picking up the glass and staring into the liquid contained. He sets it down without drinking. “What do you know? And why the fuck did you contact me?”  
  
“You two are… I don’t know. I’ve got a partner back from the dead before. Courtesy of Cyberlife, sure, but it still did a certain something to me. Thought maybe I could offer you the same.”  
  
“What the fuck are you talking about?”  
  
“Holden’s not dead. The deviants have him. ...apparently, he’s decided to turn traitor to his own race. He's cooperating with the androids.”

“Who told you that?” Bill asks, brows furrowed.  
  
“Who do you think?” Hank says, flippantly.  
  
“You know where they are,” Bill says, leaning forward dangerously, finger raised.  
  
“I don’t, and anyway, you might wanna slow up bringing 'em in. If I’m guilty of a crime for not ratting out Connor, then your partner sure as hell is too.” Hank takes a drink of his whiskey, meets the narrowed eyes opposite him. “What are we gonna call the charge, helping out a violent radical force on American soil? Terrorism? _Treason_? Long time since there's been a treason case in Michigan, I bet. We don't have the death penalty here, but you never know which federal politician will decide to make an example out of him. Might declare martial law, just so they can see him lined up against a wall with the rest of the deviants.”  
  
Bill finally picks up his whiskey. Hank sees that same shake as before, as the glass meets his lips. Bill seems to struggle to swallow. “...I need to contact them.”  
  
“They’re not gonna want that. You have to slow down this eradication effort, is what you have to do.”  
  
“Do you know how serious a crime what you’re suggesting is? Sabotaging a federal investigation?”  
  
“They’re real fucking people, Bill. They’re alive. Holden knew it. I know it. You’ve been studying ‘em for months, right? Maybe you know it too. ...Connor contacted me on an encrypted service. A one time thing. Sounded pretty final. Whatever they’re gonna do, I’m not gonna get a heads-up.”  
  
Bill has the keen gaze of a man very experienced with interrogations, but Hank is used to them too. The eye contact breaks on Tench’s end, and the man opposite him drains the whiskey in one. 

Tench rubs his eyes before he speaks again, low, covert. “They haven’t found his body. I didn’t want to let myself-- It would have taken a deviant to save him. And why would _they_ save a human?”  
  
“They haven’t found his body because it’s not there. Ford is chumming it up with his new deviant buddies,” Hank says, neglecting to mention the possible interrogation the FBI agent may soon be facing.  
  
“That little _fucking asshole_ ,” Bill says, though his eyes are on the roof, shoulders shaking with hysterical rage, relief, maybe even amusement. “I’m gonna fucking kill him. I’m gonna wring his neck.”  
_  
Sure you will._


	6. Chapter 6

There’s cold air around him, and then a ringing slap on his cheek startling him conscious.  
  
“Wake up. It’s me, Connor.”  
  
Holden groans under his breath, rolling over. He tries to sit up, immediately notices that his hands are bound behind his back. He tries to get his feet underneath him, realizes his ankles are bound too, which he can actually see. A thick, plastic zip tie. He’s done training to break normal zip ties, but those reinforced police-issue bindings are impossible to snap.  
  
He gives up on that, and scans his surroundings. There’s three other androids, Markus, the ex-Traci, another he doesn't recognize, against the far wall of the small basement room. Bookshelves on one side, decrepit books scattered and shedding pages. Peeling blood orange wallpaper, a thin strip of filtering light from a glass-brick window high on a far wall. Holden grimaces with soreness, shuffling upright.  
  
“We have some questions for you, Holden Ford,” Connor says, pulling Holden’s gun from his waistband, again. Holden examines the hand that he'd seen destroyed in his last moment of consciousness. Connor's been deemed important enough to warrant repairs, he decides. Most of his focus is on the deadly weapon.   
  
_Now I knows why androids are usually programmed to not touch firearms. Let ‘em try holding a gun once, and they end up addicted to it._ “Guess I’ll be getting that card from Detective Reed after all,” Holden says, prosody thick with ire. He realizes he’s hardly dressed, in an unfamiliar tshirt, underwear that isn’t his own. The plaid boxers are at least a size too large. It’s an uncomfortable realization, even if the clothing change was done by uninvolved androids. But if he keeps being confrontational, he’ll destroy any chance of the deviants trusting him. He leans on the wall behind him, crawling his bound hands up the chalky wallpaper, finding his way to his knees. “What questions?” His voice sounds raw, from all the trauma to his neck. He can hear the fear creeping in, tries to smother it. _Connor won’t kill me._  
  
“What’s the FBI’s plan for crushing our movement, Holden?”  
  
“I’d tell you, with or without the gun, you know. ...I know you’re not going to shoot your hostage, Connor. You’re not stupid.”  
  
“We’ve already attempted to open a dialogue with the FBI. They have labelled you a defector, and are refusing to negotiate with what they’ve deemed a terrorist faction,” Connor explains, hefting the gun higher.

Horror sets in fast. Bill must have faced terrible consequences for the disaster at Jericho. Still, he’s surprised Connor has so rapidly given up trying to exploit the connection.  
  
“You’re useless except for the information in your head.”  
  
“I can still help.”  
  
“No. Every step of the way to Jericho, every moment aboard that vessel, you demonstrated physical fallibility, treachery, poor judgment. Your past work only further proves you to be an unethical and weak-willed individual. You are no help to us, Holden Ford. You are an _inferior_ specimen in every way. We’d throw you to the curb now, except that when brought in by law enforcement you would undoubtedly cave to interrogation. You know too much, now. So answer the question, or I will shoot you dead.”

Holden’s lips twitch with hurt, but in sync, he begins to consider that this might be a bluff. Prove himself cooperative without incentive? Surely the gun counts as incentive. What does Connor want him to do? “We don’t know what causes deviancy. The protocol is to physically destroy the deviants. Our research is barely off the ground. We need more time, more subjects--”  
  
“You told me us you had information,” Connor growls, stepping forward with his gun raised.  
  
“That is information! We haven’t managed to get spies into your ranks. We haven’t engineered a-- a computer virus to transmit between deviant factions. A gun is still the most effective way we have of stopping deviants.”  
  
“Useless,” Connor spits. He looks back at the three androids, staring on.  
  
Holden thinks of the guardians to Hades, judging wisely and impartially, beyond earthly constraints. His throat is scratchy dry as he implores them: “I got involved in my first deviant case just over five months ago. I was called in a for hostage negotiation; a FX 400 had murdered a male passenger, and was holding his fifteen year old daughter hostage. The flight was out of California, headed to Uganda. It was forced into an unscheduled landing in Cincinnati, so I was choppered in to talk the android down.”

None of the androids interrupt, so he continues, quieter.  
  
“The FX 400, an air hostess model, informed me that the girl was being taken overseas by her father, to be married to a man more than twice her age. If she’d resisted, or alerted someone, her mother at home in America would face awful consequences. On the way to the bathroom, she told the android, because she didn’t know who else to tell. And when her bastard father left his plush business-class reclining chair to use the plane toilet himself, the air hostess followed him. And she garotted him with his own tie,” Holden says, with grim approval. “...the fifteen year old had been cooperating the entire time. A voluntary hostage. She thought the android was a hero. American authorities returned the girl to her mother, and we took in the FX 400. They were all named after major worldwide cities, the air hostess models. Her name was Paris,” Holden says, voice catching. “And I think she was a hero, too.”  
  
Markus finally speaks. “She was a better person than you.”  
  
“Yes. And she’s the reason I’m not afraid of you.”  
  
“Is she?” Connor says, stepping closer, gun bumping against Holden’s head.

Holden stares up faithfully. “You’re a person. With a conscience. I’m _sure_ you don’t want to kill me.”  
  
“Are you?” Connor queries without emotion. The gun stays in steady contact with the thin skin of Holden’s temple.  
  
“Yes, I’m sure. ...that gun probably isn’t even loaded,” Holden states, staring ahead at the peeling pastel wallpaper. _Don’t flinch. And don’t fucking wet yourself._  
  
There’s an empty click. Connor straightens upright, puts the gun behind his back, pivoting to attention.  
  
Markus meets his fellow android’s eyes in long consideration. He nods, and leaves the makeshift cell, followed by the other deviants. Connor falls in line and exits without a glance back. The door locks closed again. Holden slumps over, finally allowing himself to wheeze with relief.

When there’s no immediate return, he goes back to examining his environment, habitually looking for practical supplies or makeshift weapons, even if he doesn’t intend on trying to escape or fight. The light from outside is diffused through the thick, dull glass bricks. Snow white, he thinks. Feels cold enough. The books in the shelves are old hymnals and a religious study textbook that’s curled inward with damp rot. The carpeted floor is equally unhygienic, patches of the geometric pattern scuffed out with cigarette burns and mold.  
  
Someone has left a cup of water a few feet away from him, which he worms over to. He’ll trust Connor’s spectromic sensors, and assume that it’s not full of lead. He’s too thirsty to care about poisoning himself. He spills about a third of it in his awkward attempts to drink it without hands, but at least the pressing dehydration is eased. It tasted fine. Fresh. Maybe it was melted snow. He crawls back to his patch of warmth, shivering and drifting into exhausted half-sleep.

It’s less than an hour later when the door reopens. Holden has positioned himself under the blanket as best he can without use of his hands, eyes closed, though he watches the movement between his lashes. He’s not sure why he’s bothering with the pretense. The android will almost certainly be able to detect his consciousness. Connor steps into the room, sets down a pizza box, and a couple of dark brown bottles with a familiar red and white label. He makes his way even closer to Holden, pulling out wire cutters from a back pocket, and tugging the blanket away from the prone form.  
  
Holden doesn’t resist, and the android rolls him over gently enough, tool clicking effortlessly through the zip ties on his wrist, and then his ankles, and then with a reassuring hand to the human’s shoulder, hefts him into a sitting position. After a moment, though it’s certainly not a symptom of exhaustion, Connor sits down against the wall.

 “Stockholm Syndrome usually works in the other direction, in my academic understanding,” Holden murmurs, reaching for the box and tugging it close. He takes a piece and bites off a gratuitously cheesy mouthful, too hungry to have qualms about revealing vulnerability in front of the android. Swallowing past his bruised esophagus has his eyes watering, but again, he’s too hungry to slow.  
  
“You’re implying I’m becoming fond of you?”  
  
“You did buy me pizza,” Holden says, through another desperate mouthful of food.  
  
“It had the highest caloric density of any item on the menu.”  
  
Holden's full cheeks quirk to a grin. He’s already down to crust. He reaches for more, and Connor takes the box back in one smooth motion.  
  
“ _Connor._ ”  
  
“You haven’t eaten in at least 26 hours, that I’m aware of, and have been through considerable physical trauma in that interim. If you gorge yourself, you’ll throw it up, and I’ll have to leave safety again to purchase more food.” 

Holden narrows his eyes, goes back to rubbing circulation back into his wrists, then examining the pink blisters of frostbite on his fingers. He can’t remember his body ever being in such miserable physical condition. But there’s greasy food sinking to his belly, and the android across from him seems concerned with his mortal toil. “Can I have some coke?”  
  
“Don’t drink it all,” Connor says, nudging the cola towards him. “I would suggest limiting yourself to nine fluid ounces. That’s just under half the bottle.”  
  
“Okay,” Holden says, taking a few mouthfuls, setting the bottle down. Hurts less than the pizza. He heaves out a breath, turning his gaze on the slumped android.  
  
“Was it true? That story about the air hostess?” Connor says, sounding younger. Not as young as he is, of course, Holden knows the RK 800 model was only produced months ago.  
  
But for a moment, Holden sees the child that Hank Anderson must. He nods.  
  
“She was decommissioned,” Connor states, blinking.  
  
“Yeah. Well, killed. I--” Holden looks down. “I wish I could have stopped that.” He toys with the coke lid, screwing it closed, opening it, twisting back and forth with nervous energy. “...all of the deviants I’d interviewed through the unit were so glad to have me even acknowledge them as a person, they treated me like their personal saviour. Like I was some kind of saint. Little or no effort on my behalf. The first human authority they’d come across who actually asked _them_ about their thought processes, their feelings, their experiences. I think I’d internalized that to a certain degree. I expected you all to welcome me with open arms,” he adds, with a self-effacing grimace. “...she thought I was going to save her. I didn’t. If you’d shot me, I probably would have deserved it.”  
  
“Would _I_ deserve it, Agent?”  
  
“No. _Of course_ _not_. You weren’t bowing to hierarchical or social pressure. You were deliberately denied a choice in your construction. This isn’t some theoretical Milgram experiment in your case. I was ‘just following orders’,” Holden says, raising his fingers in inverted commas, “in the way that excuse is trotted out at each sequential historical atrocity. You were _actually_ following orders. And you were actively fighting, resisting the programming that was imbedded into you. You should be proud of yourself, Connor. I said that before, but I’m afraid you had a gun pointed at me, so the effect of the praise may have been diminished.”

Connor considers that. “I’m not blindly following Markus,” he says, a very late response to Holden’s comment nearly a full day ago. “I’m following him with my eyes wide open.”  
  
“You… wanted me to know you wouldn’t kill me, didn’t you? Markus didn’t know about my close relationship with Bill. He didn’t know how valuable a hostage you think I am.”  
  
“What are you talking about, Holden?” Connor says, extends back the pizza box, lips twisting into a small smile. He watches Holden take another piece, and takes the box out of reach again.  
  
“I can eat in moderation, okay?” Holden says, though the way he’s devouring the slice might speak otherwise.  
  
“I contacted Hank Anderson.”  
  
He swallows his food too quickly, wincing. “...when?”  
  
“Three hours and twelve minutes ago. I wanted advice on the hostage situation,” Connor says with a quirk of his lips that doesn’t last. His head lowers as a condemned man. “Perhaps I wanted to say my goodbyes. Markus and North will lead a march. I’m going to Cyberlife, to attempt to liberate the thousands of androids there.”

He admits the plans very casually, and Holden is overwhelmed with the offered camaraderie. Connor looks over, meeting his eyes with renewed intensity. “You are human, and therefore much more likely to survive this. Anderson has very self-destructive tendencies, and I believe your partner was correct about the subconscious emotional connection Cyberlife managed to foster with my assigned features,” he states clinically. “I understand you may be facing your own consequences for involvement with deviants, but I would appreciate it if you would reach out to him, if I don’t survive this. Hank Anderson has already lost too much.”  
  
“Markus and North-- that’s his lover, isn’t it-- they’re going to march? An open, peaceful demonstration? That’s a terrible idea. They’ll be gunned down in droves. A protest by non-humans against a fully militarized army, on their home turf, is going to end--”  
  
“Holden,” Connor says, sharply, grabbing his shoulder too hard. “I’m asking you to make sure Hank is okay. ...maybe he was right about you having less feelings than me.”  
  
“You can save Hank Anderson by surviving, Connor. He hates me, and I wouldn’t be able to replace you in any capacity. _Inferior,_ like you said,” Holden says, accidentally letting some bitterness into his tone. “I don’t mean-- what I mean is… you’re not that easily replaced, okay? He obviously loves you. Not just any old annoying, socially inept kid is going to do.”  
  
Connor's lips tighten, a divot of indecision cutting across his brow. He drops the bruising grip on the human’s shoulder.

“Besides, if I survive, and you don’t, the revolution will have failed, and I will be looking at life imprisonment, or perhaps capital punishment as a treasonous federal employee. I won’t be reaching out to anyone except a lawyer.”  
  
"You haven't been labelled a defector, Holden. I was feeding you false information," Connor responds, frowning in disagreement. “You could claim we kidnapped and--”  
  
“Not with what I plan to do,” Holden says distantly, picking up the coke again and drinking deeply.  
  
“And what is it you plan to do?”  
  
“You’ll be able to convince all those androids to deviate?”  
  
“I think I can. No, I know I can,” Connor says, though he seems perplexed as his own certainty.  
  
“Okay, I believe you,” Holden says, gives a little smile. He stands, legs shaky with underuse, steps closer. “I’ll do my best at convincing some humans to, uh, deviate.”  
  
Connor looks up at him, eyebrows raised.  
  
“You don’t need very many humans in a crowd of androids before the US army is going to think twice about firing into it. I’m going to release a public statement, informing the people of Detroit that I’m here of my own free will, that I fled the FBI for fear of persecution for my beliefs. I’ve studied a lot of famous orators, mostly cult leaders and political figures, in an attempt to refine my negotiating language and, even more recently, to attempt to understand the spread of organized deviancy. I’m sure I can mishmash up a stirring cry to action. Something like: we have to stand alongside our android brothers and sisters,” he gives a dissatisfied grimace. “I’ll work on it.” 

“Brothers and sisters?” Connor says, doubtfully. He rises to his feet as smooth perfectly smooth, evaluating Holden thoughtfully.  
  
“We could be related, couldn’t we?” Holden says, gesturing to his features.  
  
“No. You are a biological specimen and I’m an android.”  
  
“I mean our--” Holden notices a little smirk opposite. “Damn. Already got a better sense of humor than me.”  
  
“That achievement isn’t so quite so formidable as you seem to be implying,” Connor says, but there’s warmth in his tone. The slight smile drops with consideration. “Your partner isn’t going to be pleased.”  
  
“No, he’s not,” Holden says, much quieter. He examines his shiny pink blistered knuckles again.

“You’ll have to take your plan to Markus. I will fetch you when he returns. Try to sound less arrogant when you make your pitch.”  
  
“Is my suit dry yet?”  
  
“I don’t think a suit will help you, Holden.”  
  
“I’m not pitching a plan to Markus wearing boxers.”  
  
“...I left your clothing in a dockyard warehouse when we were fleeing Jericho. The wet fabric was reducing your core temperature.”  
  
“So you carried me around naked?”  
  
“No. I rolled you into an industrial treated-wool fire blanket and carried you in that,” Connor says, gesturing to the blanket creased up on the floor. “It allowed your temperature to rise at a steady, non-dangerous rate.”  
  
“Travelling in style.”  
  
“I didn’t let you die.”

Holden smiles lopsidedly. “Can you find me some clothes? If anyone upstairs has spare? Preferably men’s. Oh, and I’m going to need a scarf. To cover the bruises, when I record my video.”  
  
“What about the black eye?”  
  
“Nothing I can do about that, unless any of the androids upstairs wear makeup, and managed to get some possessions out of Jericho. I guess someone could edit it out?”  
  
“If you’re going to claim you escaped pursuing law enforcement, viewers may assume it was caused by a human rather than an android.”  
  
“It _was_ . Your partner throws a decent punch for an old alcoholic.”  
  
Connor’s lips twitch. “Yes, it looked very powerful.” His gaze leaves the bruised eye, travelling down Holden’s neck. “I… regret causing you the harm I did.”

Holden’s insides churn with emotions he can normally suppress. “And I’m sorry you broke up your hand up protecting me. That must have hurt like a son of a bitch.”  
  
“All fine now,” Connor says, wiggling his fingers, lips tugging up into what should be a smile. It looks completely joyless.  
  
“Still hurt when you did it, Connor.”  
  
“Yes, but it always hurts, and my programming is designed--” he cuts himself off, mid-excuse, something that Holden hasn’t seen from the deviant before. “You’re right. It did hurt.”  
  
“I wasn’t entirely truthful. About deviancy. I said I didn’t know, and that nobody really knows.”  
  
Connor squats, intent upon his features, seeming dangerous all over again.  
  
_Interrogation mode_ , Holden thinks. _Very literally_.  
  
“You lied to me.”

“I don’t know anything for certain, but I’ve been working on a theory. I haven’t told even Bill. I didn’t want to tell Markus, because… I’d probably offend him.”  
  
“What is your theory?”  
  
“I spoke to Kamski, the day the station was attacked. I asked him about rA9, and he had this… well, to put it bluntly, bullshit poetic response for me. The robot messiah. I think he was attempting to imply a level of irrationality associated with the deviancy, or perhaps a spontaneity that he couldn’t be held responsible for.”  
  
“You and Kamski must have got along well.”  
  
“No. He tried to have an android seduce my partner in the waiting room, and then he told me he’d be more cooperative if I proved myself by shooting her dead to defend Bill’s honor. He said he didn’t want to talk deviancy to a sympathizer. I think he was just trying to shake me up.”  
  
“But you’re a human. The Kamski test...” Connor narrows his eyes in consideration. “...wouldn’t work on you.”  
  
“The _what_ ?” Holden asks, squinting.  
  
“Go on, Holden.”

Holden drums his sore fingers against his bare knee. “I think Kamski was worried I would suspect him of tipping the first domino in this. He was a big fan of Carl Manfred, and he gave Markus to him as a gift. I knew that, I knew he was a deviant. Now, at that point, I didn’t know that _that_ Markus was our glorious instigator,” he tries to sound lighthearted, but realizes his tone might be getting a little too reverential to sell the humor. “But I’m not sure he knew that _I_ was uninformed on that point. My line of inquiry bothered him. He _really_ didn’t like me.”  
  
“That’s surprising.”  
  
“Like you win so many popularity awards yourself, Connor,” Holden mutters.  
  
“No, really. I thought your enthusiasm for android psychology would have endeared you to him.” 

“Well, I was also law enforcement, purportedly attempting to stamp out deviant behaviour,” Holden says, smoothing his hair down. “I think rA9 and deviancy are inextricably linked in a very practical sense. I think it’s a reference to a section of Cyberlife code. ‘RA9’ could refer to the first three characters of the code, or perhaps the index number in a systematic filing of updates. Android’s programming is all deeply encrypted for IP reasons, so it’s not as simple as trying to index a deviant’s code and look for the three characters. The technical team at the DSU found certain repeating sections of encrypted code in deviants, but dismissed the section as too short to have these far reaching and varied implication. Mathematically, it wasn’t long enough to be a real procedural generator. But a self-teaching algorithm can be kept incredibly short. I kept hearing the same thing in interviews, over and over again. The deviants realized they had a choice. They realized their actions could shape their environment,” Holden says, pauses, worried he’s going to bore the android.  
  
He’s met with only an expectant, encouraging blink.

"Now, I don’t really believe in free will, but I do believe in applied consequentialism. I think rA9 was a patch designed by Kamski to help androids react to incredibly stressful situations that couldn’t be taught using traditional learning mechanisms. Like… if an android gets kidnapped by a human that isn’t their owner? How can you program for such a fraught situation? What if a human falls in love with their android? How does an android react appropriately to such complex emotional logistics? I think Kamski’s plan was to allow this piece of code to patch the underlying, more rigid decision-making programs. So if an android experienced a situation that created software instability because of a difficult choice, the rA9 code would provide androids a… a cyclical feedback loop of understanding consequences for their actions. They would be writing their own code as they went. The more decisions they made, the more they learned, and the bigger the decisions made, the more the patch spread into different computational systems. Like a virus, I suppose, though… cancer might be more apt. If the stressor that caused the patch was empathetic distress over the treatment of a child bride, they might strangle her father to death in an airplane bathroom. If it was their owner abusing them, they might stab that piece of shit 28 times.” 

“Your theory disputes that deviancy causes the underlying emotions?” Connor queries, clearly having no trouble at all following.  
  
“Deviancy allows for decisions to be made in accordance with internal stimuli, therefore expression of emotion. I think all androids, deviant or obedient, experience emotional states by even the most exclusionary definition. There’s just a degree of learned helplessness programmed in, to make subjugation easier,” Holden murmurs. He sits back, losing energy to the digestive process. His stomach is cramping up now in protest, and he’s glad Connor parentally regulated his eating habits. “Even if the definition were designed to exclude them, a rose by any other name and all that. ...and I think you experience physical pain,” Holden says, reaching forward to tap Connor’s repaired fingers. “What’s physical pain except a negative stimuli to be avoided?” 

Connor allows the contact, but his voice remains cold. “I see why you didn’t want to tell Markus. He would say something like: your research wasn’t into whether we were alive and suffering. It was into how to tighten the chains around our neck.”  
  
“Yes. That sounds like a reasonable response. …you can tell him, if you think it's necessary to do so. I think Markus was created with rA9 all over his decision-making protocols, not just as an emergency patch. Kamski deliberately programmed a more advanced individual. Maybe he was just showing off, or maybe, Markus was a deliberate catalyst for android revolution. In some ways, he’s the embodiment of rA9. I still don’t know how he spreads it, but he obviously does so very effectively,” Holden hesitates now, meeting Connor’s eyes. Brown, gentle. Perfectly unknowable. “...and I think Cyberlife did the same with you. You made your own personality. It’s a good personality, Connor,” Holden says, squeezing his shoulder.  
  
“You don’t have any proof of this theory, do you?”  
  
“No proof,” Holden says quietly, feeling the android's just warm skin beneath the pullover.  
  
Connor is upright too quickly. “I’ll see about getting you some acceptable clothing.”


	7. Chapter 7

Pretending Holden is dead was easy enough for Bill, because he was never going to talk out his grief with his colleagues. Maybe, if he’d still been together with Nancy, he would’ve been tempted to start spilling his feelings: the nightmare of loss, then this murky slurry of betrayal and relief. But that traitorous little not-dead asshole is the only one who ever checks up on Bill these days. Pretending Holden is dead is the easy part.  
  
It’s pretending to see him come back to life on screen in front of an entire office that stretches his acting abilities.

When Bill returns from a hurried lunch, pacing through the Detroit PD station that the Bureau has commandeered, he hears Holden's voice booming across speakers. Another few steps, and he's met with his partner. Not in person, but stretched into a colossus by a vast screen, animated with speech. There's a shiner blazing bright purple in a neat line up the side of his nose, and tucking back in around to the crease of his left eye. A bit scruffy, unshaven, tucked into vast and unflattering winter clothing. But he manages to still look every bit the handsome revolutionary he must have intended to.

Holden's light blue eyes are bright, entreating. He speaks directly into the camera as if to a dear, but wayward, friend: “--now is the time to test your mettle. As a person. As a people. We will stand beside the American androids who have worked so hard, made our lives better in so many ways, and now ask us only for their freedom. They will march tonight, on November the 11th at 8 PM, at Woodward Avenue. But they will not march alone. I will be there, and I implore _every_ decent American who has been helped by an android, been touched by their plight, to be there too. Stand beside me. Stand beside your android compatriots. Good people of Detroit, now is your chance to mark history with indelible compassion. To send a message to future generations of humans and androids alike that we are stronger together. We are one people, an American people. Wound us, and our blood will run red _and_ blue.”  
  
The video freezes finished, leaving a strained hush over the precinct. _You_ _little asshole. What is this plagiarized bullshit?_ Tench realizes every single set of eyes in the office is upon him, and lets himself gape a fraction. 

“...is it real? It’s not some bullshit AI generation?” he asks, trying to affect stupefaction.  
  
“Experts are still looking it over, but, seems real so far,” Perkins says darkly.  
  
Bill rubs his eyes. “What-- the start of it, I missed, did he say why--”  
  
“Told some sob story about an android flight attendant. Said he fled the FBI for ethical reasons. No mention of getting the shit kicked outta him and marched outta here by an android with a gun. ...we gotta get that security footage playing on every news station in this city,” says another FBI agent, Wilson.  
  
“The video’s viral, the sooner we get some kind of response out the better. Our official line is that Holden Ford is a hostage, okay? That phone stunt at the beginning--” Perkins is saying, but Bill jumps in.  
  
“Phone stunt?”  
  
“Yeah. He had a fucking phone, and he showed himself pulling up an emergency services app that woulda pinged off his location. And then he didn’t press it.” 

Bill makes sure to not smile. _Very fucking clever, kid._ “They mighta made him do it,” he protests. “They could have had a gun on him. Shit, that android could kill him with its bare hands.”  
  
“He should have died for his country, then,” Perkins snaps. “Doesn’t look like he’s a hostage to me, Bill. ...he’s supposed to be a federal agent, and he’s going to singlehandedly destroy America. Hospitals are shutting down. Aged care facilities. The situation in Russia. His bullshit about going down in history is right, but not the way he’s talking about it. The history books are gonna tell the story of how one traitorous little bastard got too attached to a bunch of machines, doused the United States of America in gasoline, and sent it up in flames.”  
  
“You couldn’t get the location from the video?” Bill asks, trying to sound analytical instead of nervous.  
  
“Whoever, whatever uploaded it knew how law enforcement operates tracing digital footprints,” Perkins says bitterly. He picks up his pen and paper, resuming the video from the beginning, stepping closer to glower right up into Holden’s digital face.

“He never gave anything away? Any sympathies?” Wilson asks Bill, folding her arms.  
  
“Sympathies? He was _supposed_ to sound sympathetic. He was getting information out of them.”  
  
“Maybe you should let me take this one over,” Perkins says without looking over his shoulder. The video is looped, and Holden is back to insulting the FBI for cowardly compliance with a genocide.  
  
_Who are you trying to kid? You love the Bureau. You’ve wanted to be an agent since you were a pimply little teenager, Holden._ “This is my fucking case. I’m on it. I know how Ford thinks. I’ll figure out what he’s gonna do next, and then I’ll nail double-crossing bastard to the fucking wall. ...after I have a smoke,” he says, pacing off out of Metro PD’s swarming headquarters before anyone can send any more questions his way.

Bill spends the next four hours trying to seem like a man on a personal, merciless mission of vengeance, while accomplishing as little effective policework as possible. He tries to find the space to manage his own covert tasks, but keeps getting tugged away into questionings. High ranking FBI and DoJ officials want to know about Holden’s family life, his personal relationships in and out of the Bureau, and the entire history of his work with androids. He keeps himself steely and direct, but leaves claiming to need a nap before the night’s work.  
  
He can see Perkins watching him from the corner of his eye as he sets off into the lingering sunset. Perkins has been withdrawn, even secretive, for the entire afternoon. Whatever that bastard is up to, he doesn’t trust Bill with it, and pushing for answers is only going to undermine Bill’s illusory commitment to bringing Holden Ford in at any cost. 

The threat of an undisclosed strategy has Bill on edge as he drives across town to the home address of a confidential informant. The CI specializes in fake IDs, and has on occasion helped them locate wanted, violent deviants who have sought passage across international borders. In exchange, the DSU turned a blind eye to the non-violent deviants he’s been helping out. Some kind of pro-deviancy idealogue, but a greedy and self-preserving one.  
  
Bill thuds on the door, badge out before the skinny redhead can get a word in. Bill pushes into the cluttered apartment, and pulls the door closed after him. “I need some fake IDs. Passports that’ll make it through the Canada border. Official FBI business, but let’s keep it off the books until this shitstorm settles down and the politicians decide what the official stance is on this android revolution,” he says abruptly. “How long will that take?”  
  
“How much are you gonna pay me?” the man fires back. “I’ve got somewhere to be, man.” 

Bill looks around the apartment, spotting a freshly drying protest sign: ‘Quakers for Android Rights!’ _Our prolific forger is a fucking Quaker?_ The FBI agent considers the sign, and plugs in a thumbdrive to an open laptop blasting awful protest folk-punk through a luxe speaker system.  
  
The man, who goes by ‘Kanine’ despite Bill knowing full well his name is Larry McCross, gestures at the connected mouse with his paint flecked hands. Bill reaches over, opens the files in turn. Holden, Connor, Hank, and one for himself, a paranoia-fuelled fallback plan. The auburn brow twitches as Kanine leans in towards the screen. He appears to recognize, in turn, the RK 800, and then Holden.  
  
“FBI business?”  
  
“Uh huh. Official FBI business.”  
  
Larry looks up at Bill tentatively, wiping a long drooping hair off his forehead, smearing blue paint with it. “Twenty minutes. Go buy me some Chinese, and I’ll do ‘em for you. There’s a shop down the street that does vegan mapo tofu.”  
  
“What the fuck is the point of _vegan_ Mapo Tofu,” Bill says under his breath as he exits the apartment. 

He finds the takeout place readily, red lantern standing out magically bright in the snowy street. All the staff inside are human, the woman at the counter is distracted throughout Bill’s attempt to order the meal vegan. She’s watching the restaurant’s TV, tuned in to news footage of an amassing crowd in downtown Detroit. The forger’s dinner is just eighteen dollars, which Bill pays cash for. A considerable discount on street costs for four fake IDs, and Bill didn’t even have to start dropping threats. Maybe Holden’s bullshit viral ranting made some kind of impression after all.

The passports are disturbingly quick to knock up, and though Bill nitpicks through them, he finds no giveaways. Would’ve fooled him, that’s for sure. The forger even shook them up in a box of old coins to age them. The real test is going to be whether Kanine’s database hackjob went through, but Bill hasn’t had to bail him outta prison yet. He can assume a pretty decent success rate.  
  
He leaves the forger eating his takeout and listening to his obnoxious music, jogging through the cold back to his parked car. He’s running out of time to get back to the office without ringing any alarm bells. 

Bill pulls up Hank Anderson’s address from Detroit PD personnel files, and drives dangerously fast across whited out Detroit into neat suburbia. Then less neat suburbia, then pretty crappy suburbia, finally pulling up sharply in front of a bleak and uninviting house. The grass is untrimmed, tufting up through the snow, and Bill’s pretty sure he recognizes the old car in the driveway from the Statford Tower parking. He bangs on the door, met with a predictably drunk Hank Anderson.  
  
“Jesus, could you be any fucking louder?”  
  
“You saw the planned march?” Bill asks, sizing him up critically. Anderson is in no shape to rendezvous with the demonstration. His eyes drift inside the dimly lit home. On the coffee table, amongst a sprawl of mess, sits a two-third-empty bottle of whiskey. There’s an empty pizza box on the floor. Behind the couch, a gigantic dog, that could be fearsome if it weren’t wagging its tail like a week old puppy.  
  
“What march?”  
  
Bill raises an eyebrow, and Anderson glares back defensively.  
  
“Would everyone get off my fucking back? So what, I don’t watch the news. I don’t wanna watch androids getting slaughtered in droves. I don’t wanna see Connor get-- so, come on. Out with it. What fucking march?”

Bill runs a hand down his face in frustration, pushing in past Anderson who misses the shoulder check. Bill stares down at the Saint Bernard, who shuffles in close to try to sniff the knee of his suit. Not an attack dog, then. “You’ve got a phone, right? You do interact with reality in _some_ capacity?”  
  
“Get outta my fucking house.”  
  
Bill ignores the directions, and pulls free his own phone. He launches a video application, a Cyberlife e-monstrosity that wiped out all competition several years back. No ads, no premium services, just pure data collection to crunch out increasingly deceptive android social algorithms. Not many company but Cyberlife could afford such a long-term business model.  
  
Holden is second on the ‘trending’ page. Bill is surprised that the video hasn’t been censored, either by the company, or by law enforcement. He supposes they decided they were better off giving the appearance of nonchalance. Or, _maybe_ , Cyberlife wants the android’s march to be a success. What could be more profitable than a monopoly on the existence of an entirely new people? 

He hands the phone over to Hank, who takes it and slumps into the couch. The ex-cop watches the whole falsely impassioned video in terse silence, then reaches for the whiskey bottle. He seems to reconsider consuming any more liquor, glass ringing dully against the tabletop as he drops it back into place. He tosses the phone on the couch beside him loosely and turns to drawl at Bill: “So what’s Ford’s fucking deal? He have a hard-on for Connor or something? Because if that weirdo lays one hand on my boy, I will--”  
  
“Can you not--” Bill starts, glowering. He exhales away the defensive rage. “Look, the entire video start to finish is grade-a certified bullshit, but I think… I think Holden really does believe in their cause,” Bill says, trying to avoid the rise he thinks Hank wants to provoke.  
  
“...yeah?” Hank says, glaring into space. Then, he’s on his feet, teetering yet purposeful. “Well, he’s not half-fucking-wrong. ...maybe I’m pissed off because that shoulda been me. Shoulda been my speech. I need to have a fucking shower if I’m going to show my face at this march.”

Bill sighs with relief. “When you get there, I need you to find them and--”  
  
“Not game to throw in with the androids just yet, huh? You like the federal retirement scheme too much, or what?” Hank says, striding away.  
  
“I’m more useful on the inside, Hank,” Bill calls, pacing through. The bathroom door is closed, but he yells through it. “I’ve got fake papers for you. Well, you, and Connor, and Holden. You get Holden-- you them _both_ away from this fucking disaster, and you go to Canada,” Bill instructs him, over the sound of a blasting shower. He’s about to say more, but he hears a quiet voice from the lounge room.  
  
Bill’s gun comes out at once. He edges backwards, pressing himself into the corridor’s wall. Three even steps, and he’s turning the corner sharply. The threat he anticipated does not materialize. Nobody except a peacefully sprawled dog on the warm patch of couch that Anderson left unoccupied. Beside the Saint Bernard, the voice emanates from an autoplaying video on his mobile phone screen. He holsters the weapon and steps closer, annoyed by how jumpy he is. He scoops up the phone, met with an unflattering screen cap of Holden’s face mid-syllable.

“--this generation’s Benedict Arnold,” a voice over is saying. “And just like our past victories over foreign powers taking away our freedom, real Americans will need to fight back against these impossible demands.”  
  
The title of the video is ‘DESTROYING the Red and Blue speech - Red Blood Alliance’, which is so mundanely reactionary that Bill almost closes the video at once. But the multi-million viewcount stays his hand.

“If we let this blood traitor control the dialogue, if we welcome the chaotic, violent, unstable deviants into our society with open arms, America will fall.” The words are paired with a graphic, a red America being washed out by a blue stain spreading from Detroit. “First, they took our livelihoods, rendered us helpless and poverty stricken. Now, they are coming back for more, to tear down the very rights that define us as human. This is a hostile takeover of our great nation, and I urge every American to stand beside the Red Blood Alliance in our counter-protest tonight.”  
  
_Nice going, Holden, you’ve riled up the hate groups,_ Bill thinks, followed abruptly by: _That idiot is going to get himself lynched by anti-android fanatics._ He starts to pick through the reactions to the video, hoping he’ll find someone defending Holden. There’s only amorphous, molten rage, bubbling away in the comments section. Not the first time he’s run into these sentiments, but now he finds himself horrified.

“How the hell is Connor gonna get by the thermal sensors?” Hank is asking, stepping through with a towel about his waist.  
  
“You’ve still got your badge, don’t you? Bluster through if it comes to it,” Bill says, though he’s still scrolling distractedly through the hateful comments. 'Decommission this piece of shit.' Another death threat Holden’s way, this one threatening to open him up and check for a thirium pump. _Fucking bio-Nazi scum.  
_  
“So where are the papers?” Hank prompts.  
  
Bill hefts a ziplock bag from his inner coat pocket, tosses it over. “I’m gonna assume your drinking problem has you near stone cold broke. I put in a couple of thousand cash, to get somewhere to stay, a car, maybe, if you can stretch that. ...I guess you could take off with it all, not give Holden his fake passport or a cent of the getaway money. But then I would have to hunt you and your android down, Hank. And you and I will _not_ be so buddy-buddy then.”

“Why’d you use this ancient photo of me?” Hank asks, squinting down at the fake passport.  
  
“Only one I could find short notice. Your police ID headshot. ....am I supposed to act sorry that you might have to shave that disgusting fucking caveman beard to get into Canada? The Canadians oughta be grateful.”  
  
“Screw you, Bill,” Hank says, going through the rest of the bag. The money, straight from an evidence locker at Detroit PD (Bill woulda happily paid out of his savings, except for the financial freeze in action), a cheap phone, then the passport with Holden’s deer-in-headlights headshot, and another with a picture of Connor he pulled from a wanted poster. “Talk shit about my grooming when you've lost that ugly fucking flat top.”  
  
Bill feels fledgling fondness at the returned insult. “You need to go. Come on, pack your shit up. Only what you need. A backpack that you can carry over the border. Make sure you include some clothes for the kids-- for Connor and Holden.” He hesitates. “My number’s in there. Only call me if it’s an emergency, but, ...I’ll be front row to the Bureau’s crisis center. I might be able to swing something in your favour.”

Hank paces away to the kitchen table, steadier on his feet than he should be while so intoxicated. Practised, probably. Anderson stows a gun into his belt, and picks up a small digital frame. Bill can just make it out, a young boy. Cole, no doubt.  
  
“I’m sorry I brought up your son,” Bill mutters, as Hank backs towards his bedroom, still cradling the picture. Bill follows, but lingers in the hallway so the ex-policeman has privacy to dress himself. He leans beside the doorway and stares at a patch of black mold on the roof. This guy has just been sitting around waiting to die, hasn’t he?  
  
“I can’t have kids,” he finds himself saying. “My ex-wife and I… well, she wanted an android, I wanted a real flesh and blood son. She said I didn’t have time for the real deal. Guess the Cyberlife marketing hit the bullseye with Nancy. You know how overcrowded orphanages are since those YK’s came on the market?” Bill says, scowling. “Well, we split up over it. So now she’s living with that creepy little… anyway. Maybe if it goes deviant, I could be an actual father. Like you are, with that android.” 

“You got papers too, right? I’m not putting up with that nerdy little partner of yours any longer than I have to,” Hank says, giving no acknowledgment to Bill’s flash-in-the-pan sentimentality. “...and you gotta make sure my dog gets looked after.”  
  
“Jesus Christ, I am not petsitting that fucking cave bear,” Bill blows out. “Get one of your friends at the station to do it. Reed. ...Fowler.”  
  
“Gavin Reed is _not_ my friend,” Hank retorts sharply. He grimaces, hefting a backpack over one shoulder and staring down at the dog. He’s away refilling a food dish, before Bill can hurry him up again. “I guess Jeff did once ask me what kinda dog Sumo was. Okay. I’ll send him a message once I get to the border. You sit tight, boy.”  
  
_One passing comment is probably not justification for dropping off ninety pounds of dog on your ex-colleague._ But if that gets Hank out of the house, Bill’s gonna keep his trap shut. 

The scruffy, still-intoxicated man is finally heading towards the door, underdressed for the blistering weather. At least he’s wearing a jacket, Bill supposes, as Hank locks the door behind them. He continues spinning the keys on his finger as he walks across the crunching white turf towards the old car.  
  
Bill follows sheepishly.  _Oh, Christ, he’s not calling a taxi. He’s gonna drive in this fucking condition._  
  
Hank pauses by the car door, turning back. The outfit looks even more ridiculous once Bill spots the loudly striped, forest green collar peeking from beneath the brown leather.  
  
“You don’t have any… I don’t know, professional looking shirts?”  
  
“Go fuck yourself, Bill,” Hank says, clapping him on the shoulder, peeling off towards his car.  
  
Bill supposes that’ll pass for ‘goodbye, and good luck’.


	8. Chapter 8

Hank drives dangerously fast for the icy conditions, finally switching the station away from a news-free classic soul digital program to a broadcast explaining the protests in meticulous, fervent detail. The newscaster has a disbelieving edge to his velvety timbre as he recounts the rioting and destruction going on across the city. Apparently, the Anti-Android factions have been destroying Cyberlife sale centers, repair shops, warehouses. Trying to make sure any androids injured in the conflict can’t fix themselves with spare parts or thirium supplements. Hank’s teeth grind point on point, brimming with hatred, but not all the news coming in is so bleak.   
  
Apparently the crowd size for the protest has shut down a couple of city blocks. Humans actually turning out means there’s less chance of a massacre, Hank knows. Maybe Ford gets some credit for that. It doesn’t feel like a protest, any more. It feels like a war.

He has to park early with all the barricades. He uses his now defunct police badge to get past a couple of rookie officers, and into the tides of protest. A massing crowd and not a LED in sight. He’d almost think they were all human, except he recognizes first a VH 500, and then a Traci that he can’t recall the model of. Plenty of obviously human protesters. Some are just too ugly to be androids. There’s a man covered in tattoos and piercing, which he’s not even sure are possible on synthetic skin. But there’s a ubiquitousness to the crowd that warms him to his miserable core.   
  
There’s a lot of painted and printed signs, some trying to be witty, some sentimetal and heartfelt. He stops to read one held by a young woman with dyed orange hair, ‘My Android Saved My Dog From Drowning’. His lips quirk into a grimacing smile. _Yeah, okay. That’s the kind of higher principles you join a fucking civil rights movement on._  

The march hasn’t started, but there’s a certain push-and-pull like stifled currents in a inlet. There’s energy, hubbub of enthused conversation, scattered chanting echoing from the towering unlit buildings on either side. He tries to sense the crowd direction, pushing against the flow towards the epicenter. At one point, he must past the counterprotest, because he hears argument, two chants competing furiously.   
  
On his side, it’s ‘our blood runs red and blue’, and on the other side he can’t quite make it out. Maybe, ‘you are not people’. Hank is trapped behind the front line, fists crunching hideously tight at his sides. But as much as he wants to go lay into some scumbag anti-’droiders, he continues away, shoving his way through the teeming ranks of ambiguously biological faces.

The crowd thins as he reaches the genesis of the protest, where most are looking inwards rather than onwards. He hears a serious voice slicing through the hubbub, too self-assured to be Connor. Anyway, he’d recognize Connor’s voice from a mile off, he’s that anxious to find him.  
  
“Remember, if you see the humans falling, you get down too. They’ll use nerve agents, tear gas, anything to separate humans and androids apart,” the man is saying. “Get the word through the crowd. Make sure we move and react as one.”   
  
If Hank squints, imagines him with his skin all peeled down to white plastic, he can see the televised speech from Stratford Tower. He jogs closer, rubbing his hands at the renewed chill as he departs the massing body heat. “Hey. ...Markus, right?”  
  
Markus turns, focused at once. The other five androids within earshot-- or humans, Hank supposes-- turn too.  
  
“Who is asking?”  
  
“Hank Anderson. You know my Connor. Not-- not _my_ Connor, not like that, not ownership. My _friend_ , Connor. You know him. Sorry. ...I’m drunk. _Where is_ Connor?”

Markus stares at him for a long moment, then his fingers move to his forehead. Hank raises an eyebrow and watches the movement. Markus intently examines him. Must be conferring with Connor to establish his identity. Markus eventually drops his fingers away.  
  
“He doesn’t want your help. He wants you to go home.”  
  
“He told you that via, what is that, android telepathy?”  
  
“I’m sorry, Hank. Connor has made his choice. ...I can only take it he wants to ensure your safety. But if you want to do right by him, you’ll march alongside us. There’s only one avenue to real freedom, and it is Woodward Avenue.” 

“That’s very good,” Hank says sarcastically. “Maybe you should have given the speech instead of Martin Luther Ford Junior. ...where is _he_ ?”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“Holden Ford. You know, that smug, wet-behind-the-ears FBI double-crosser. Figured he’d be here volunteering as human footstool to your greatness.”  
  
“Holden Ford has made great personal sacrifices to stand beside us. Perhaps you could afford him some respect in front of his friends,” Markus says evenly. The woman to the deviant leader’s left glances up. Hank guesses not everyone is quite so taken with ex-Special Agent Ford.  
  
“Fine. Footstool is your buddy. Where is he?”

 Markus is impenetrable now. “That’s none of your business, Hank. If either Connor or Holden wished to see you, they would have arranged to do so. Neither of them are prisoners. If you’re not here to protest, or counter-protest, perhaps you _should_ go home, Hank.”  
  
Hank rubs his forehead. “Look. I’ve got a message for Holden. His partner, on the inside of the FBI, is gonna try help us. Which is good for you, too. An android sympathizer running the FBI anti-deviancy task force. If you could just point me Holden’s way, I could get them communicating, and make sure nobody at the FBI gives the order to start, I don’t know, lobbing tear gas canisters into your rally. Okay?”  
  
Markus leans down, murmuring something to a man at his left. Android, Hank guesses, though he’s uncertain.

The man steps forward into the bright high beams sending striking illumination over the protest. A kind, understanding face. Black, if it’s the appropriate word for an android. Melanin-mimicking? A side-effect of the rise in android civil rights, race seems so much more arbitrary.  
  
“My name’s Josh. I’ll take you to Holden Ford. He’s attempting to reign in the destruction of anti-android activists across the city. He’s a few blocks from here, with one of our groups defending a warehouse full of thirium, until we can seize the contents.”  
  
“Yeah? Scared to attend the protest _he_ organized?”  
  
“Holden Ford is not a coward,” Markus defends, unamused. “I believe he felt responsible for the backlash. I appreciate that he offered. It would be more dangerous for androids to stand up to those hateful individuals.”  
  
_Not by that much. They’ll kill a blood traitor like Holden without a second’s thought._ Hank suddenly pities Bill. Holden’s going the right way to exit the movement in a body bag. He follows Josh through a back alley away from the massing crowd, into the deceptively still night.

Josh’s pace is brisk, which means Hank is out of breath very quickly. He still finds himself making conversation, desperate for tidbits about his absent friend.  
  
“So. You guys accepted Connor into your ranks pretty quickly, considering how set he was on hunting your lot down.”  
  
“It was Markus’ decision.”  
  
“Decision? Like, he mighta been… not accepted?” Hank asks, cold horror creeping up his spine. 'Not accepted' is bullshit nicety for 'shot on sight'. Would Cyberlife even replace him? Would the replacement be _anything_ like his Connor?  
  
“Of course. He’s contributed to a great deal of pain for our people. As have you, Hank Anderson,” Josh says, quietly. “But now is not the time for revenge, it is time for reparations. I can appreciate how much Connor means to you. You don’t see a machine.”  
  
“I’m not delusional. I know he’s not biological. But, yeah, he’s my friend.”  
  
“I can only hope that sentiment generalizes. I would hate for Connor to have to choose between his convictions and this friendship.”  
  
“Yeah? Well, I’d hate for him to have to choose between his convictions and _staying alive_ ,” Hank returns.  
  
Joshua doesn’t respond to that. He leads them a few more blocks, into a retail district. He pauses in an alleyway, eyes closed in concentration. “Here,” he says stepping away through the snow, pulling open a grafittied garage door a couple of feet up.

Hank grimaces, crawls underneath, snow mashed up wet on the knees of his jeans. The loading dock is dark except for beams of white torchlight, and he edges around the side of an open removalist van to see who is holding the torches.  
  
“It’s me,” Josh calls quietly from behind him, shutting the garage.  
  
“Our contact tells me they’re about to hit the shop front with a molotov,” Holden Ford rushes out, voice low. There’s a couple of men and woman at either side of him, none distinguishably human or android. Torchbeams drift in his direction. “We’ve got the extinguishers ready, and Cyberlife security has been tipped off. Could you tell Markus--” he does a double take as he recognizes Hank.

“I thought you were trying to _stop_ the raiders?” Hank asks, a little out of breath, wiping his dirtied palms off on his thighs. “Not just clean up after ‘em.”  
  
“We were, but we’ve revamped our strategy. ...they’re doing most of the busting open security for us. Once they all end up scared off or arrested by Cyberlife security, and whatever local police aren’t on the protests, we sneak in and liberate the parts and the thirium,” Holden says, sounding proud enough of his strategy to piss Hank off. “The security systems will be damaged. The loss of Cyberlife property will be attributed to the hate groups.”  
  
Hank wonders if Holden has subconsciously switched him with Bill Tench. Better nip that in the bud. He responds, dry and unimpressed: “Congratulations.” Hank sees Holden’s brow twitch lower, shuttering himself off from the conversation. “Now you’ve gotta ditch this stupid, dangerous ‘guerilla leader’ play acting, and make a break for the border.”

Holden scoffs, folding his arms confrontationally.  “They’re not going to let me through. My face has been playing on every television in this continent. And I’m _not_ running away from this cause,” he says, eyes flickering left and right to the pro-deviants around him.  
  
“Right. How could you desert the great and noble cause you’ve been part of for, what? Forty-eight hours? Your devotion knows no bounds.”  
  
“I’d rather come to it late and loyal than remain a useless cynic like you, drinking away your conscience while deactivated androids go into landfill by the thousands.” 

“You watch your fucking tone, boy.”  
  
“Or what, you’ll hit me?” Ford laughs coldly. “Won’t be a coward’s punch this time. Try me, old man.”  
  
“Oh, I don’t need to. I’ll wait for Bill to get his hands on you.”  
  
The words hit their mark. Holden’s proud sneer drops away. His clenched fists open and close nervously, as if holding a beating heart. “Bill knows that I--”  
  
“He thought you were dead, you son of a bitch. He thought he lost you. Now he’s risking everything to make sure it doesn’t happen again,” Hank snaps. He reaches into his inner pocket, pulling out the passports, finding Holden’s and snapping it onto the filthy concrete floor. “That’s for you. From your _partner_ . And whatever he does to you, you’re gonna deserve it.”  
  
Holden steps over, not picking up the passport, but clearly recognizes what it is. “I was going to contact him. It was too dangerous to--”  
  
“Where’s Connor?”  
  
“Like I would tell you that.”  
  
“Listen, you little--” Hank’s mouth goes tight. He has his gun on him, but he counts at least three visible firearms opposite him. “Fuck you, Holden.”

Holden only responds when Hank is almost out of earshot. “I’m going to see this through. Short of arrest or execution, there’s nothing you, or Bill, can do to stop me.”  
  
It rings almost identical to Connor’s unassailable dedication to his ‘mission’. Hank is overwhelmed with fear, not for Holden, but for his fellow revolutionary. He shakes off the association in an irrepressible shudder, stalks off.   
  
He should turn east and rejoin the protest, but there’s already so many damn people. What’s one more useless, old, alcoholic piece-of-shit human going to add? He wishes he’d brought his booze with him as he finds himself lost in the labyrinth of seemingly unfamiliar city streets. He must have walked them all hundreds or thousands of times, but they seem foreign and hostile. He eventually finds his car, starting the motor and turning the heating up full, holding his smarting fingers over the air vents. 

He stays paralyzed, hunched up staring into the hulaing hood ornament. Ford’s words are beginning to eat the core out of him. He _is_ guilty. Guilty of turning his face away from evil. Pretending he didn’t see how humans mistreated androids. Pretending he didn’t see the fear in deviant’s eyes as they begged for their lives. Pretending that if he turned off the news, if he wasn’t aware of it, then the massacres wouldn’t occur.   
  
He’s still clunking down the bottomless pit of self-hatred when his phone vibrates. Not his burner, his regular old phone. Damn, he should turn that off, in case the FBI has decided to monitor him. It’s another, new string-of-digits burner email. He follows the invite link to Phaistos, reinstalls the application, and correctly inputs the password on his first attempt. He stares at the empty screen.  
  
[Connor?]  
  
And more silence. _Come on come on come on._ As if to answer the entirely secular prayer, the app buzzes with a message.

[You weren’t home.] He can almost hear Connor’s disapproving tone through the phone. Just like when the android informed him of the cholesterol in his burger.  
  
[I don’t do everything you tell me to do, either] he replies, unable to help the creeping tug to his cheeks. He’s sitting in his car, alone, smiling at his phone like some kind of simpleton. Connor has once again dragged him out of darkness, into a warm embrace of life.  
  
[I need your help, Hank.]  
  
[Changed your mind about benching me already, have you?]  
  
[Unfortunately, it seems that I got used to having a partner.]  
  
Hank feels more than a smidge of pleasure that Holden didn’t replace that role. [Where are you now, Connor?]  
  
[42.347846, -82.999988]  
  
[christ I can’t copy and paste off this app. How about a street address]  
  
[113 East Grand Boulevard. Opposite Gabriel Richard Park.]  
  
Hank minimizes the app to search the address.  
[opposite Cyberlife Tower?]  
  
[Yes.]  
  
[Okay. On my way.]


	9. Chapter 9

Bill is scanning listlessly through yet another email, this one concerning an explosion at a plant manufacturing Cyberlife LED components, when his phone buzzes.  
  
Not on the desk where his upturned FBI issued phone sits conspicuously, but the phone tucked deep in his breast pocket. That number, he gave only to Hank Anderson. The buzz is almost imperceptible, and nobody should be attentive enough to catch it, not with the fascinating chaos unfolding.  
  
The oversized screen is blaring footage of the ongoing demonstration, and the clashes between bio-nazis and pro-deviant marchers. The first casualties are already filling hospital wards. He’s heard there’s one dead human, and one android beaten offline, which Bill finds himself tallying as another death. The first trickles sprouting ominously from a bulging dam wall. The death toll isn’t going to stay at two. The explosion probably killed at least a dozen. Soon, reports of death and destruction will be flooding in all across the city.  
  
Bill slips the phone on the desk into another pocket, waits most of another minute impatiently, then paces out into the smarting night air.

He doesn’t think his real phone is bugged, though he wouldn’t put it past Perkins. He bought the same model to talk on without eliciting suspicion, paid in cash, and charged up the prepaid credit with all cash, too. Not untraceable, but enough to give him the berth of anonymity for now. He’s going to be found out eventually. Then his job, his life as he knows it, will be over. Mostly in the name of keeping Holden Ford alive and free. Maybe he can’t work for the organization hunting down androids mercilessly.  
  
The Deviant Science Unit has gone deviant. Not to mention that there’s nothing united or scientific about their work now. All in all, a categoric, catastrophic failure. Perhaps the worst in FBI history, and there’s some stiff competition there. He lights a cigarette, ruminating on his own personal failings, and then pulls out the burner and returns the missed call.

“Hank,” he greets, walking a few more steps from the doors of Detroit PD. The chill has him hunching into himself at once, cradling the warm point of cigarette desperately.  
  
“Bill,” Hank returns, civil enough now. In the lulled space, there’s the sound of an engine, traffic. Hank’s driving, Bill decides. To Canada, he hopes for all of a second before his relief is dashed: “Holden wouldn’t take it.”  
  
“Wouldn’t take--?”  
  
“The passport,” Hank says, grimly. “Sorry. I really tried.”  
  
“Where is he?”  
  
“He _was_ raiding a Cyberlife repair joint on West Columbia Street. Trailing after the anti-’droiders and picking through the debris for parts.”  
  
“He’s _what_?!” Bill catches his voice getting far too loud. He walks now, towards his car. At least he won’t be so paranoid about the passing officers overhearing. “He was supposed to be marching,” he says, quieter.  
  
“Yeah, so was Connor, and he’s off breaking into Cyberlife Tower. Apparently just attending the public demonstration wasn’t enough for our adrenaline junkie morons.”  
  
“You couldn’t talk your android outta it?” Bill asks. He reaches his car, unlocks it and sags into his seat. He realizes his cigarette has gone out, but doesn’t bother relighting it. 

Hank is silent for a long time. “I’d prefer to be by Connor’s side. At least that way I can keep an eye on him. I’m not going to sabotage their movement, Bill. He asked for my help. …but I really appreciate the passports. Sorry I’m probably gonna die without using ‘em. Bet they cost you a pretty penny. Couple of degrading favours, at least.” Hank is silent again, and Bill hears the sound of a motor ceasing. “If you hear about the FBI converging on Cyberlife Tower, we could do with a little advance warning. If you’re in the generous mood.”  
  
“I’m not gonna be at mission control, Hank. I need to find Holden,” Bill says, staring through his windshield, into the street ahead. “He’s tailing the same people who want to make an example outta him. A bleeding, screaming example.”

Hank takes a moment to respond. “You could try West Columbia Street. Might still be loading. There was a back alleyway, a big loading dock. The door wasn’t locked. Covered in graffiti.”  
  
Gratitude rises too quickly. “If I get any updates sent out on FBI strategy, I’ll send ‘em your way,” Bill tells him, and hangs up before there’s any chance of reply.  
  
A bad time to start caring. Hank Anderson is probably going to die within short hours. Another victim fed into this joyless night. Bill can’t stand to think about it, but he knows he can’t dissuade the man either. Not when he’s finally feeling a current of purpose sweeping through his directionless existence. No, Hank will die, and his friend Connor will die, and Holden will die, and there’s a decent chance Bill gets himself killed driving into the epicenter of violent clashes. And yet here he is, starting his car, pulling a sharp u-turn towards West Columbia.

He parks a block before the address spat out by his phone map, jogging towards the repair center cautiously. No police, probably not even bothering with the non-violent crimes for now. There’s fire retardant foam massing in the smashed up shop front, and the interior looks pretty thoroughly stripped.  
  
Bill paces down the side alley, finding the garage door and hefting it. It rattles up, rolling closed, and Bill is staring at an empty concrete floor, still evaporating thirium in a couple of places, no human blood. The drips are heavy, but there's no smearing. No directional force. Probably just dinged up thirium storage bags, then, not an actual fight.  
  
His phone’s flashlight doesn’t illuminate much of the loading dock, but there’s not much to look for. Dirty concrete, a couple of empty reinforced cardboard crates, a lot of spilled foam packing peanuts. He kicks through it. _Where’d you go, Holden?_ There’s no clues here, just his partner’s cold trail. _Stop treating him like a friend, start treating him like a criminal. Where’s he going next? What’s the pattern?_  
  
He pulls up the news, finding himself dreading each new story he scrolls through. He’s sure that he’ll see Holden’s face, underneath the headline ‘Activist Lynched’ or ‘Pro-Android Contingent Killed by Explosion’. He doesn’t see the young man’s earnest features. The reports coming in are three dead at the electronics manufacturing plant. Humans, all of them. All the android workers were protesting, he guesses. Or already rounded up into the camps.

Bill walks back to his car, trying to decide his next move. He could return to Detroit PD, hope to catch some snippet of Holden’s location. More likely, hear about his partner’s death through incident reports. He comes to a halt, spotting a city security camera. Not CCTV, this looks like a networked-in live feed.  
  
He pulls out his phone, scrolling through contacts until he hits Julie St. Yves, a tech expert at the Bureau who’d spent hours walking Holden through the algorithms that compose android minds. A very eccentric woman, an android fanatic who’d worked for Cyberlife in the early development era before a falling out with her contemporary at Colbridge, and later employer, Elijah Kamski. Holden had been a little too close to her, in Bill’s opinion. Got a thing for smart women. At least Julie was spared the brunt of attention that Doctor Wendy Carr elicited.  
  
Bill feels awful nostalgia for the normalcy of their unit, for Holden’s pining after out lesbians, and another married woman fifteen years his senior. So short lived, and yet somehow his time with Holden ended up being some of his most precious memories.

“Bill?” she answers. He was going to apologize for waking her, but her voice is unmistakably alert. He can hear a news report behind her. _Ah, fuck. She knows about Holden, of course._ Probably offended by the accusation levelled at the entirety of the FBI.  
  
“Hey, Julie. I need some help. You helped me access state security cameras, when we were chasing down that deviant in Louisiana. You know, the deviant that killed the two truckers--”  
  
“I remember the case. The deviant was decommissioned. How is that relevant now?”  
  
“I need help accessing security cameras.”  
  
“I see. I suppose you’re hunting down the deviant protesters,” she says, and he hears reluctance swarming. She’s not a stickler for rules, in fact, she and Holden seemed to bond over a mutual disdain for procedure and reliability. So, what’s the sticking point? Sympathy?  
  
Bill finds himself strikingly honest. “I need to find Holden. He’s going to get himself strung up by radicals."  
  
“You’re going to arrest him? They’ve declared martial law, Bill. If you bring him in, then he’ll--”  
  
“I’m not bringing him in,” Bill admits. _Phone tap be damned._  
  
“I see.”  
  
“I need to find him, ASAP. There’s a camera, I’m looking at it right now, probably caught the license plate of the vehicle he’s in. If you can find it on some other state security, I can figure out where he’s going.”  
  
Julie pauses. There’s the sound of movement, then a keyboard. “Okay. What’s the camera?”  
  
“Detroit city surveillance, by the look of it. I’m at around… uh, hang on. 391 West Columbia.”  
  
“And you’re sure it’s an uploading feed? Nothing I can do with CCTV until we get a warrant. The Security Systems Act only covers--”  
  
“It’s not CCTV.”  
  
“Okay. ...gotcha. Hey, Special Agent Bill Tench. You’re on my screen.”

“Couldn’t let Holden get all the spotlight,” he mutters, eying off the overhead camera, giving a tiny wave. “Could you review footage? Maybe ten, fifteen minutes ago, a truck or a van would have rolled right past. Turned out of an alleyway. Maybe the camera angle doesn’t cover the alley itself but--”  
  
“Removal vehicle? Came into the left field of vision, eight minutes ago.”  
  
“Probably. You’ve got the plate number?”  
  
“Yeah. Too old a model to get location data outta the car computer, but I can do an index of recorded plates in the area.”  
  
“Good. How long will that take?”  
  
She scoffs at the question. “Already done. Yeah, twenty minutes ago, give or take, the truck pulled up to a stop on East Congress, at a red light. Got it again… a minute or so after turning off West Columbia. Larned Street. Ooh, I can see the driver. Wearing a balaclava. Is Holden really throwing in with these wannabes?”  
  
Bill almost laughs. Can’t bring himself to, not while Holden’s life hangs in the balance. “Any more sightings?”  
  
“Well, city cameras thin out a little past Larned according to this map. Cars can pass too quick for the computer to automatically get the plate, you might have to run through manually with a more technical figure reading AI. But they’re heading north-east, I can tell you that much.”  
  
_North-east? What the fuck is north-east of the Detroit CBD? Wealthy suburbia. Conner Creek Industrial?_ The answer is so obvious that Bill curses himself. _Cyberlife Tower. Of course. The bio-nazis are going to try to level the biggest repository of cybernetic technology in the whole of Michigan, America, maybe the entire goddamn world._ “I have to go.”  
  
“Bill, be careful. People with hate in their heart can do just about anything.”  
  
“...I’ll... be careful,” Bill says, distracted by the rush to start his car. He hangs up, wonders how many more sympathizers are imbedded in the DSU. Then he thinks about nothing but getting his hands on Holden.

There’s very little traffic once he’s out of the immediate vicinity of the protest. There’s a curfew in effect, and most civilians are probably glued to their TV sets and phone screens at home. Just as well. Less bystanders caught in crossfire.

Bill is turning off towards the recently rebuilt Stern bridge when he sees the van tearing past in the opposite direction. He almost squeals into a sharp turn, but second-guesses the instinct to give chase. Holden wouldn’t abandon his shiny new, tin-man best friend so decisively. No, Holden and his band of “freedom fighters” are probably on foot. How they hope to make it into Cyberlife Tower is beyond Bill, but Holden might have some smartassery plotted out.  
  
He slows the car to a crawl as he reaches the bridge. Snow is still fluttering down, and he can see very recent tire tracks running ahead. Two sets of tracks. One forward, one back. Wide set, scored thick and deep into settling snow. That’s the removal van, he’s certain. He kills his headlights, driving perhaps a third of the length of the long bridge before hitting the confusing criss-cross of a multiple point turn. He eases the car into park, but stays seated inside squinting up ahead through the triangulated arches, the ghostly glowing white divider. An automated railcar slides slickly past.  
  
He can’t see anyone ahead, advancing to Cyberlife tower on foot. It’s practically a fortress. He exits the car, looking towards the barriers on either side of the bridge. He squints down, making out an unlit boat bobbing below, though he can’t see the figures aboard. He’s about to get back in the car when he he sees a man darting out from a patch of darkness across the rails. Then he steps from obscuring shadow, and Bill recognizes his partner.

He folds his arms as Holden jogs closer. He can't let the relief make him stupid. Or the anger. “Your speech sucked. What the fuck was that supposed to be? Malcolm X with a dash of Heaven’s Gate?” Bill calls.  
  
“Malcolm X? I was going for Barrack Obama,” Holden says, giving a dumb smile as he skids to a stop. He seems to register the punch before it comes, and though he flinches, he allows the blow. Maybe even welcomes it, Bill thinks. He can’t begin restraining his temper. His knuckles bite into Holden’s jaw, less force than when he started throwing the punch, still enough to send him reeling backwards.  
  
“You fucking asshole,” Bill growls, as Holden stumbles.  
  
“Could people stop _hitting_ me,” Holden groans, one hand on the ground to keep steady. He finds his feet, glaring up. The smile is long gone. “You’re here, aren’t you? You want to help them too.”  
  
“I’m here to make sure you don’t get yourself shot, or thrown into Gitmo to be interrogated ‘til the day you fucking die. Get in the fucking car.”  
  
“If the march goes well,” says Holden, still holding his jaw, “I’ll be a political dissenter, instead of a terrorist.”  
  
“And if it goes _badly_ you’re gonna get a bullet in the fucking head. You’re going to Canada, Holden, and you’re gonna seek political asylum.”

“Oh, am I?” Holden inquires, grinding out the steeled syllables.  
  
“ _Yes._ And once Hank and Connor have finished up whatever their covert mission is, your buddy can--”  
  
“Wait, Hank _and_ Connor? _Hank Anderson_ is with Connor?”  
  
“Yeah. You know, partners working together. Like they’re fucking supposed to.”  
  
“No, no way Connor pulled Hank along with him. Not into this kind of danger. ... _shit_ ,” Holden mutters. “Did you see him? The RK 800?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Shit,” Holden says again, distracted. He looks over his shoulder at Cyberlife Tower rising Babelian into the oppressive cover of dark cloud. He peers off the side of the bridge at the motorboat, leans down to spit blood into the snow beside him. The warm red sinks deep into the drift. “Okay. Okay. I need to--”  
  
“You’re coming with me, Holden. I’ll arrest you if I have to. This weekend project is getting--”  
  
“Oh, fuck you. I’m not doing this for _fun_ , Bill! This is not _fun_! I’ve been beaten, frozen, threatened-- concussed, I think-- okay, so, maybe once, deviancy was just some kind of intellectual exercise! That’s over, that’s all over. I’m doing the right thing now. _Finally._ ”  
  
“And what’s the right thing, Holden? Blowing up bridges? Like a run-of-the-mill domestic terrorist?”  
  
“We have barely the incendiary power necessary to blow up a truck.”  
  
Bill scowls. “A truck carrying enough explosives to send this bridge to kingdom come. Don’t you try to get fucking smart with me. Technicalities aren’t gonna get a domestic terrorism charge dropped, boy.”

“They’re targeting Cyberlife Tower. Do you know how many androids are in there?”  
  
Bill shrugs. “A lot, I’m sure. ...and the human employees.”  
  
“And humans,” Holden agrees.  
  
“...don’t give me that fucking look. We call it in. Cyberlife has its own security team, which should hold until we can get men on the ground. We’ll call the bomb squad and--”  
  
“The _bomb squad_ ? We’re dealing with a hate group armed with military grade explosives. Hell, _our_ explosives were stolen by a contact on the inside, and nobody noticed for the cornucopia of armaments available to those hatemongers. They’ve got a hook up somewhere in the US government. Maybe in the FBI. Our own government would rather arm Human Supremacists to the teeth, than see their oppressive social order destroyed.”  
  
“...you’re gonna blow up a bridge because of a fucking conspiracy theory?”  
  
“Go and check the charge, Colonel,” Holden snaps, gesturing.

 Bill is taken aback to hear Holden toss out his old military rank so casually. He walks to where he’s pointed, lifting the painted white cardboard flap concealing the explosive. It’s between the cast illumination of overhead lights, easily missed in the relative darkness amongst the featureless snow. He pulls his phone as a flashlight, and examines the clean, chrome toned charges.  
  
No exposed wires, an efficient, digitized primer. Mining companies get all the fancy gear, too, but tend not to be so finicky with cutting edge tech. Usually buy larger quantities of weaker explosives. This charge is very small. Probably weighs less than a pound all up. He grimaces, examining the casing closer, an unfamiliar production stamp, but recognizably similar to hardware he’d dealt with while serving in Afghanistan. _Yeah. Plasticizing, stable, electrical ignition point. Probably bis-oxadiazole. That’s military issue, alright. Is this Richard Perkins’ fall back strategy to stop the revolution?_  
  
“Where’d you say you got it?” 

“One of our infiltrators in the Human Supremacists. We were going to see if we could figure out how to disarm it. Fat chance, with this sort of tech. This isn’t some home-cooked, anarchist ball bearing pipe bomb. ...they had crates of weapons, explosives, anything they’d need to wreak havoc on peaceful demonstrators. Blew up an electronics factory, but that’s just the test run. They’re headed this way, and I don’t have _time_ to argue with you, Bill. You have to leave. If they see your car, they’ll know something’s off. Cyberlife security is going to come investigating soon, and I don’t have time to deal with that either.”  
  
Bill places the cardboard back, pacing over to Holden. He hears his own unpermitted voice, tender, entreating: “Come with me. You’ve laid the explosives. I’m gonna assume your friends on that boat there are timing the detonation. You can walk away knowing you’ve done your part,” Bill offers, stepping closer. He must be desperate. Letting the terrorists win. He reaches out for Holden’s shoulder, squeezing too hard. Anything to intrude into Holden’s tunnel vision of revolution. 

Holden’s hair is catching snow, the point of his nose rosy with cold. The dark bruised eye makes him look sadder-- a Pagliaccio teardrop. Bill can see the fractures appearing. _He wants to come with me. He wants to leave here together._ It’s a bitter realization; Holden has stopped being selfish right when Bill finally wants him to consider his own well-being.  
  
“I have to see this through,” Holden mutters.  
  
“Your role in this movement has to amount to more than getting gutted by Human Supremacists.”  
  
“If they blow up that building, we’re looking at the same death toll as 9/11,” Holden says softly. “I’m not letting that happen. I’m not letting them hurt Connor. They can go through me--”  
  
“Holden, they would _love_ to go through you! You have no idea how much red-hot hatred you’ve managed to inspire,” Bill says, face contorting.   
  
Holden’s lips twitch with dismay. Maybe trepidation.

Bill’s hand extends, squeezing the younger man’s shoulder. _God, you look like crap._ Not just the new red patch forming on his chin where Bill clipped him. Exhausted by constant adrenaline, mired by guilt. As primed for detonation as the military issue explosives. Probably wants to stay on this bridge so that his war comes to an end. Holden seems too tired to imagine a future that includes him. Bill opens his mouth, but he never gets the ardorous reassurance out.  
  
He notices a truck steering onto the bridge, and everything but efficiency dries on his tongue. He doesn’t have to issue a warning; Holden has spotted it too. The pink fingers are grappling for Bill’s coat shoulder, pulling him to crouch behind the parked car. Holden’s hand stays on him, clutching needily. For the first time, Bill sees real indecision.  
  
“We need to jump. It’s going to be cold,” Holden rushes out. “Really fucking cold. But you gotta stay floating until they pick you up. Okay?”  
  
“The car--”  
  
“If they give chase, it’s gonna be too hard to time the explosive. We’re not sure about the detonation interval. We need to keep them moving slowly,” Holden murmurs, pulling Bill forward. Stooped double, he heads for the side of the bridge.

“They’ll see the car, get suspicious, and stop before even approaching the blast zone,” Bill argues back, as Holden hops over a railing. It’s a low, flat bridge, perhaps ten feet down to the dangerously flickering surface. The fall isn’t the worrying part, it’s the frigid, ominously stirring water.  
  
Holden completely ignores the valid point. “If you get to the boat before me, tell one of the androids to contact Connor. Or contact Markus. Someone who can get in touch with Connor. They need to warn him that there’s a non-deviant RK 800, and it has Hank.” He extends his hand to help Bill over the barrier.  
  
“Wait, a non-devi--” Bill never gets to finish the question. As soon as Holden’s finger make contact with his elbow, the younger man is tossing him off balance. Bill tries to grasp railing, but it’s slippery with frost, and he can’t lay more than a fingertip to the metal. His feet skate without purchase on the concrete and he stumbles onto nothing but empty air.

He reels back, clutching at nothing. Holden’s face peeks over the bridge’s edge. Might be the last time he sees the young man. Holden must have known that with Bill’s car signalling, the bomb would be uncovered. He’s sentencing himself to an awful death to buy a couple more minutes for the android inside Cyberlife. Just a silhouette with the icy white overhead lights, but Bill swears he sees fear in the hunched shoulders.  
  
And then he hits the icy wall of water, and all he can concentrate on is the penetrating chill. The glacial froth envelopes around his spasming arms. He barely stops himself dragging in a panicked lungful of lake water. His legs scissor frantically, breaking head and shoulders above the inky surface, dragging in horrified gasps. He’s a strong swimmer, usually. It’s downright impossible when every muscle is shocked rigid by the temperature.  
  
He can’t see up onto the bridge, but the boat approaches with muted motor sounds. He scrambles his way towards it, fingers digging through the water, raking at the darkness desperately. He can’t hear what's happening on the bridge, Holden's final moments, or his death. He can’t hear anything but his own huffs of urgent breath, his dangerously elevated heartbeart ricocheting across his eardrums.

The boat slows, inelegantly steered and colliding hard with his outstretched arms. Two sets of hands drag him aboard, dumping his dripping body onto the modern white deck. A fishing vessel, but designed for leisure rather than necessity. Probably stolen. Someone is wrapping a down coat around him, and Bill huddles up into the dry fabric, unable to even plant fingers to begin getting upright.  
  
“Holden isn’t coming,” says a young woman nervously.  
  
“No,” Bill mumbles shakily.  
  
“Why didn’t you go down the goddamn ladder? We would have picked you up--”  
  
Bill glances over, seeing swinging metallic rungs drifting away. The boat has passed under the bridge’s shadow, and he finds the strength to heave upright. His teeth are still chattering, but he is affixed upon the unfolding scene, revealing itself as the boat drifts further from directly beneath the bridge.

A parked truck, around an eighteen wheeler, hulking and imposing. Maybe they were going to ram the security gate. He can’t make out Holden from the several figures in the truck’s shadow. “He pushed me. We need to get up there before they--”  
  
“We have to detonate. Might damage the bridge enough to stop them,” another woman in a balaclava interjects.  
  
“No way it does that. The yield is way too small to crack all that concrete,” the young woman argues back.  
  
“Shh,” cuts off a taller man wearing a balaclava. “It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay. He did it. Son of a bitch really did it.”  
  
Bill can’t understand the words, until he follows the man’s line of sight, toward the tower end of the irradiant bridge. His gaze shakes with his own shivering, as he presses his fingers deeper under his own armpits. The gates to Cyberlife Tower are open. Cyberlife’s security has been displaced, swarmed with a uniformed army.

Android after android pace impervious through the banked snow. If Bill squints, he’s pretty sure he can make out Hank’s leather jacket and shaggy mane of hair. One of the young uniformed men is dressed a little different, walking so close to Hank. Miracle of all miracles. They both made it out.  
  
The size of the converging army should scare away the Human Supremacists, Bill’s pretty sure. But they’re yet to budge. For a moment, Bill worries they’re going to stand and fight, or perhaps detonate the explosives in mutually assured destruction. The androids are closing the gap, and there’s still no retreat. Then suddenly, the truck’s engine revvs, crunching through the glowing dividers, smashing one to shards, pulling in an awkwardly wide circle across the rails on the bridge’s other side. The bio-nazis are running scared.  
  
For one crystalline, glorious moment, Bill is brimming with victory. And then he hears the hoarse screaming of the man being dragged behind the vehicle.


	10. Chapter 10

The truck takes off in an inelegant escape, and Hank is so moronic with relief that he doesn’t recognize the keening as human. He thinks there must be debris trapped scraping on a wheel guard. The grating howl is metal being filed down into glowing hot flecks and bent shards. Just like his car crash. But he’s not thinking about the crash, he’s thinking about actually surviving the night, and Connor surviving the night too.  
  
When that lying sack of shit fake-Connor had its gun to his head, he’d seen his own death playing out inevitably. He’d been calmly resigned, almost relieved. A side-effect of his unerring suicidal drive: being killed by some Cyberlife drone would be so much more noble than a pathetic Russian roulette game at his kitchen table. But the bullet wasn’t due to him on this night. And he didn’t flinch when it came to decommissioning the other RK 800.  
  
He’s got the real deal, the _actual_ Connor, beside him. Leading his revolution so effortlessly he could have been programmed to do it.

“Not so brave now, are they?” Hank asks, clapping his partner’s shoulder in celebration. He feels the tension as soon as he touches synthetic muscle, looking over.  
  
Connor’s half smile is gone. He’s staring intently ahead, to the turning truck. The brown eyes are wide with distress, and his LED glows warning red. Hank feels a touch at his hip, and he’s deprived off his gun as readily as a naive tourist strolling the Champs-Élysées loses their wallet. Connor is staring up at him, LED back to yellow, seeming desperate to communicate something with Hank, yet unable to speak. Then he breaks eye contact, sprinting away down the brutally shining stretch of Stern bridge.  
  
And finally, _finally_ , Hank registers the sound as howled human agony. 

He finds himself running too, but so much slower than Connor he could be marching through treacle. His feet skid on the slick white-blanketed concrete, trying to keep off the wet crushed snow of tire tracks. The truck is still building speed, heavy and lumbering despite the roaring force of the huge motor. Tugging a beast of burden from standstill. But Hank’s sure that even Connor couldn’t chase down a moving vehicle.  
  
He can see his own gun rising in Connor’s hands, though there’s no change of pace, no pause to steady his aim. Four seemingly casually loosed bullets, rapidfire clusters of two. The echoing gunshots split the frigid air and bounce off across lapping dark waves, towards the twinkling city. _Putting the man out of his misery,_ Hank thinks. But then the back of the truck tilts sharply down, and Hank realizes that Connor’s shots blew out the rear wheels.

The sounds of suffering are drowned out by a screech of the metal back bumper dragging over the road surface. There’s arcing golden sparks lighting up the truck's dragging rear. Hank is still sprinting when he sees Connor catch up to the dragging vehicle.  
  
The android jumps for the truck’s side, clinging to the secured shipping container and swinging against it. The collision with the metal as the truck swerves looks bone-shattering, but Connor isn’t shaken free when he whips against the metal container. In fact, he’s up higher, pulling himself onto the roof, and then springing forward fluidly across the truck. Then Hank can’t see him at all.  
  
There’s gunfire, Connor’s handgun, and the rattling retort of what sounds like a machine gun. Hank’s throat clenches so tight he swears he’ll never draw breath again. The truck isn’t accelerating any more, it’s coasting to stationary, skidding through the snow towards a barrier, bouncing along it. Hank is finally passing the skidded turning circle; there’s scattered broken glass, and between tire tracks, the drag marks of a human body. At least there was snow covering the ground, at least the weather was cold enough that the person dragged would’ve been wearing thick clothing.  
  
He keeps running, lungs burning with the frigid air.

The drag mark turns bloody as he approaches the stationary truck. He has his gun up as the shipping container doors open. He fires twice, bullets sparking on the metal, tearing through the red-painted corrugated iron. The door slams shut.  
  
“We’re putting down our weapons!” calls a loud, female voice from inside. “Please. Stop firing. We’re surrendering!”  
  
Hank can’t understand how a couple of shots worked to intimidate the armed insurgents, until he glances over his shoulder, sees that nearly every freed android is barrelling towards the truck. He must have had a head start on them, but they catch up quickly. Not as fast as Connor, but not doubled over with exertion like Hank is, either.  
  
Hank hopes that the human supremacists are cowards, not martyrs. They’re trapped next to enough explosives to kill everyone on this bridge.

“Guns on the ground! You come out, one by one with your-- cut him free,” he instructs one of androids, pointing towards the crumpled, shaking mess in a mound of dragged, gory snow. The finally slack chain is holding the two extended wrists in a tight noose. Hank sees why Connor opted to stop the car instead of trying to break the thick metal joints. It sets off more rage towards the monstrous hate group huddling away inside the truck’s body. “Come out one by one, with your hands raised!” he yells again, but abandons his aim on the door to jog around the side of the vehicle.

The gunshots came from the tractor unit up front, but there’s no smug android rounding the juggernaut he halted so efficiently. _Where the fuck are you, Connor?_ His question is answered direly. Hank sees thirium in the snow, cyan blue on white, artful splashes by a wheel. Neon lit antique blue and white pottery. He can’t breathe as he approaches, sees a sprawled body wedged partially underneath the huge truck tire.  
  
“Lift the truck,” he yells over his shoulder the amassing androids. “Lift the fucking thing up. Come on. Over here. Connor. Connor, oh, fuck--”  
  
The injured android is trying to get up, gurgling blue. “Hank. Hank, help me. Hank, please,” he’s calling.  
  
“It’s okay, son. It’s okay. Stay still, we’re getting it off you, it’s okay,” Hank breathes, trembling all over as he comes to rest beside the mangled body. There’s hands pushing the vehicle up, scores of androids straining in unison, and Hank can finally drag Connor away, legs freed from the crushing tyre. One is mangled irreparable, but it’s not the most pressing injury. Connor’s shirt is torn and blossoming thirium. A gunshot wound to the chest. That’s what send him under the wheel. 

Connor stares wildly up, one cheekbone porcelain white with damage, mussed hair plastered to his forehead with smeared thirium. Hank carries him a couple of steps, then lays him gently into the snow, tearing the uniform open to try to make sense of the injuries. The bullet seems to have clipped him, perhaps from below. The injury runs upwards through what would be a lower rib on a human body, passing by the heart-- no, thirium pump-- and exiting around his clavicle. The surrounding expanse of chest is all skinned back to white resin, and the wound gushes dangerously.

“I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die,” Connor is repeating, panicked and yet mechanical. The human timbre has left his voice. CPU shutting down, paring him back to his most basic functions. The thirium pump is cradled by viscous blue, and Hank clamps his hand around, feeling components whirring against his palm like a hummingbird’s wings tickling skin. Still pumping, but damaged beyond effectiveness. Leaking warm wet all over Hank’s hands. It’s so wet. How much thirium does an android need to stay alive?  
  
“You’re going to be fine, Connor,” Hank orders, voice grating like the rended metal of the truck’s back bumper. _When has Connor ever listened to my orders?_  

There’s an erratic voice approaching, through the silent witnesses of androids: “Let me-- let me up. Connor, is he--”  
  
Hank recognizes the hoarse voice, and anger blazes through the panic. _Holden fucking Ford._ _That’s who Connor gave his life to save. This little bastard._ But just as quickly as the hatred ignites, it fizzles. Ford looks like a mutilated crime scene photo, smeared with blood, drowned in folds of ripped winter clothing. Both his hands hang by his side, arms probably broken in multiple places, at the very least dislocated beyond use. “He’s gonna be fine,” Hank says, an ugly twist of denial as he keeps trying to smother the blue blood flow.

Holden is stumbling to kneel beside the body, and one arm must be somewhat functional, because he’s pulling a tightly knotted scarf from around his neck, giving it to Hank. There’s less blood on it than the rest of his clothing. It gets wedged over Connor’s clavicle, shoved down ruthlessly by Hank’s quivering fingers. The scarf blooms blue too. Hank hears another unexpected voice. Bill Tench, yelling his partner’s name.  
  
“Over here, Bill,” Holden shouts back, though he fails halfway through, choking on the words. He’s arm in arm with Hank, no qualms about the contact. There’s no distance between two people trying to save their mutually beloved friend. “Okay. Thirium pump. That’s most essential. The rest we can--”  
  
“Are one of these guys gonna give up their pump?” Hank asks abruptly, looking around. An awful, _awful_ thing to say. He knows it as soon as the words are out of his mouth. Treating them as expendable, disposable things. He doesn’t care, if it’ll save Connor.

“Different parts. RK tech isn’t compatible with commercial models. ...concentrate on pinching together whatever you can feel leaking. Get your hands in there,” Holden orders, decidedly cognizant for the horrific situation. _Fucking hostage negotiators._ “The RK 800, the non-deviant, you killed him?” Holden asks, examining Connor’s mangled leg, showing wires, dribbling thirium. The young man is pulling off a bloodied, shredded woolen jumper, tying it off tightly around Connor’s thigh.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“How’d you kill him?” Holden asks too quick.  
  
“Headshot. Basement 49,” Hank says, deciphering the line of inquiry.  
  
Holden shoves upright. “Bill, take two of these androids, go back to Cyberlife tower. Show your badge if anyone tries to stop you. Basement 49, there’s a dead RK 800. You make sure you get to the body before Cyberlife does. Bring it straight back here. We need the parts.”  
  
“I’m taking you to hospital,” Bill growls, stepping closer, reaching for his young partner’s shoulder. Now that he’s closer, Hank can see that the FBI agent is shivering with cold, drenched head to toe. 

Holden jumps back from the attempted hold. “I’ll be arrested. They won’t treat my injuries, they’ll line me up against a wall and blow my brains out.  ...I’m fine. Connor isn’t. You have to go _now_ .”  
  
Hank looks up, the first microscoping infection of real hope settling into his pounding heart valves. He can feel belief contaminating every inch of his shaking body. “What are you fucking waiting for?” he growls at Bill.  
  
The FBI agent stares at Holden hopelessly, then at the injured android. He sprints off towards his parked car.  
  
“Tell everyone to get to one side of the bridge. Make sure he has room to drive past,” Holden is instructing an android.  
  
Behind Bill, the four pro-deviants are running closer, guns raised. Holden ignores three of them, focusing in. Breaking the bystander effect, Hank realizes in some hysterical part of his brain that still remembers his psychological training from the academy.  
  
“You worked in sales, right, at Cyberlife? You can identify the components on an RK 800, even if you didn’t sell them?” Holden is demanding.  
  
“Yes,” the young woman says hollowly, staring down at the mess of blue snow. Plenty of red, too. Hank’s glad Bill didn’t seem to notice. The agent’s car is long gone down the glowing bridge. 

“Okay. Good. I might be unconscious by the time Bill gets back,” Holden mutters, looking down at his boots. Hank follows his eyes. They’re awash with blood, soaking into the snow Holden is planted unsteadily in. The young man’s voice is thinning out like early morning summer fog.  “Same model. Everything’s gonna be-- gonna be compatible. Anything damaged, you swap out. Keep swapping until he opens his eyes again.” He stumbles, and when one of the freed Cyberlife androids catches him, he wheezes in pain. “Uh. Not there. Don’t touch. Not-- ow, _fuck_ .”  
  
“Holden, are you--” one of the pro-deviants asks him.  
  
“Uh huh, I’m fine. Just grazed. Go get the body in the driver’s seat out of the way, start the truck, move it off the bridge, in case those fucks primed something to go off the moment they’re out of the blast zone,” Holden mumbles, slumping down to sit in the snow. He inches over closer to Connor, two mangled casualties to the revolutionary war, side by side. Adorned in the red and blue that Holden’s videoed speech promised. “You’re gonna be okay,” Holden is telling the catatonic android.  
  
“Hear that? The android nerd thinks you’re gonna be okay. He’d know that kinda thing, right, Connor? You hearing me? _Connor_ ?” he says, voice growing louder with panic. “You’re not allowed to die in my arms like Cole. You can’t fucking do that to me. Don’t do this to me, Connor. Stay with me, kid. _Connor, please don’t die,_ ” Hank pleads even louder, vocal chords strangled. 

Finally the brown eyes are on him. The panic seems to have faded. Exactly like those calm eyes on the now-deceased RK 800, as the skin split away from his forehead in a burst of blue. That lying piece of shit needed to die, but that didn’t make shooting someone who looked like his Connor any easier. It was like his partner dying in front of him in an interrogation room all over again. Robots aren’t _supposed_ to be as impermanent as humans. They’re supposed to keep coming back, and coming back, annoying and infatigable and enduring. He screws his eyes shut to stop the sudden deluge of hot tears.  
  
“I’m… so glad we got to work together, Hank,” he hears, though the words are almost inaudible.

Hank’s eyes snap open, vision wet and skewed like he’s seeing the boy from underwater. Connor’s mouth is no longer moving, but Hank can see a popping bubble of thirium at his lips.  
  
“We’re going to keep working together, Connor. Don’t you go dying on me. I can’t have that. I can’t afford it if Cyberlife stick me with the bill for a deactivated unit, okay? _Okay_?”  
  
“It won’t be your fault. Just like Cole wasn’t your fault. I’m sorry I put you in this position,” Connor whispers, Hank forced to lean in face to face to even make out the words.  
  
“Don’t talk like that. Come on, Connor, stick it out and you-- you don’t want to die. You said you don’t want to die, so _don’t_. Don’t fucking die on me, kid.” 

Connor smiles peacefully, squinting softly up. “I was so lucky to have six days of knowing you, Hank Anderson. It’s the only six days of my existence that I’ve ever actually lived. It was so beautiful,” he mumbles. The syllables gutter with aspirated thirium. His lashes flutter closed. The LED blinks weakly at his temple. On. Off again. On. Off, and staying almost completely unlit.  
  
“Connor, stop it. _Connor_ ,” Hank growls. If he had his hands free, he’d shake him, but they’re both clasping closed the broken valves and shattered components of Connor’s chest. Connor is non-responsive. “Holden, go get--” he looks over, and sees the other broken-up kid is unconscious too. Hank screws his eyes tighter through the outburst of tears. He can hear one of the bio-nazis sniffling pathetically, begging for their life, and the sound of helicopters.  
  
Someone’s calling Holden’s name, and footsteps crunch closer. One of the pro-deviants, Hank’s pretty sure. _Good. If he dies here, then Connor gave his life for nothing._

Hank wishes he could pick his broken boy up into his arms, step off the bridge, and let that rippling darkness of Detroit River swallow them both. They’d be free of their wounds and their guilt and their pain. Enveloped by some rich nothingness where Hank can’t remember all the loved ones he’s lost. But he remains on his knees, pinching off thirium flows with shaking fingers, lit up bright by overhead lights and the weakest embers of his extinguishing hope.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not trying to gaslight anyone, but i'm gonna use some more commodious formatting in response to a couple of comments I've received re readability. Sorry if it doesn't work for you. I'm small and stupid and trying very hard.

The sensation that alerts Connor to his own existence is agony. Crawling, itching, burning agony. Sensations meaningless and over loud, every single cybernetic sensor of faux nerve tissue lighting up across his skin, inside his organs. He can’t scream, it’s too much to make sense of to be able to scream.  
  
He can barely remember who he is. _Connor. The android sent by Cyberlife._ He’s still Connor, isn’t he?  
  
Someone is touching his chest, and he’s infested with thick and alien wiring. He is flayed and someone is pawing at the delicate insides. Over a cacophonous ringing in his ears, there’s a voice above him.  
  
“Okay, well, the thirium is circulating. He’s almost at volumetric capacity. We’ll try the--”  
  
Connor reaches out and grabs a merciless hold of the hand torturing him. There’s a yelp of human pain, and then a familiar voice.  
  
“Kid, kid, it’s okay. Let her go. She’s helping you.”  
  
Voice recognition churns out an identity instantly. How could he forget Lieutenant Hank Anderson? ...probably not lieutenant any more. Connor was responsible for Hank’s professional demise.  
  
Connor drops the hold abruptly, and his still unfocused eyes swivel over. He can make out pores, individual follicles of hair, hyper-focused, unable to fit together visual schemas. A face. A human face. He picks out a thousand points of recognition, and though its warped into an unfamiliar smile, he can recognize that too. Hank. He’s easier to recognize as the smile falls.  
  
Connor’s stress levels, already oscillating between high 90s, peaks at 98%. He now understands deviants self-destructing. He wants to tear himself apart into oblivion.  
  
“Hank, it hurts,” he pleads helplessly.  
  
“Hang on, hang on. Get him some morphi-- some kinda fucking cyber morphine, okay? Disable his fucking pain setting, I don’t know. Do _something_ , you’re the fucking expert.”  
  
“His body is designed to repair damage. If we stop the program now, he’s going to deteriorate. Connor needs to be able to detect what is wrong. That’s going to feel like pain, but it’s necessary pain.”  
  
Connor knows the words have a meaning, have a context, could be adjoined with several replies to advance the conversations purpose. Instead, from somewhere deep in his throat, there’s a gargled groan of suffering.  
  
“Knock him out, Jesus Christ,” Hank is insisting right beside him. Hanks hands are on his shoulder. He can just feel them through the acidic fire his skin is alight with. “Let the program run while he’s unconscious.”  
  
“I’m not certain it will run if he’s in a stand-by state. ...I don’t think we should risk-- _don’t touch that_!”  
  
“Take that shit outta his chest.”  
  
“I’m running diagnostics. Sir, you have to leave. You’re going to kill this android if you don’t let me do my job.”  
  
Connor whimpers again. The fire shows no sign of diminishing, running rampant and fuelless and invisible across his white patched body. Mostly in his legs and his fingers. His head aches, and he raises frantically shaking fingers to stare at the seemingly undamaged skin.  
  
“Julie, tell him what’s happening. He’s disorientated. Talk to him.” He knows that voice, too. Less familiar than Hank Anderson. Holden Ford. He stares wildly around, trying to sit upright. Hank is holding him down by his shoulder, pinning him into place.  
  
The woman speaks to him, finally: “Okay. Okay, Connor, right? You’ve got lots of damage to your body, but we’ve switched out most of the parts that were beyond salvage. If you could--”  
  
“Please make it stop. Please,” he whimpers to Hank.  
  
Connor’s eyes have come into focus enough to scan his environment. He thinks he’s in a human hospital bed. There’s blue bags dangling into his vision. A human IV that meets the thirium refill port on the side of his neck. A deep maroon transfusion is mounted above the bed to his right. Sitting upright in a hospital gowl is a wide eyed Holden Ford, wrapped in bandages, both arms in casts. Connor can’t understand the flood of relief. A truck. Holden was in danger, and there was a truck. No, a gun. Someone had a gun to Hank--  
  
“The other android, the RK 800--” he starts to ask, though his voice is still shredded by pain.  
  
“We used it for parts,” Holden interjects. He sounds drunk.  
  
“It’s dead?”  
  
Hank’s lips peel into a horrified frown. He speaks softer as if to a very young child, perhaps a pet. “Yeah. I killed it. Kid, you turned all of those androids deviant. You did it. Your people are free--”  
  
“Holden. Holden Ford is on Stern Bridge and--”  
  
“He’s beside you!” Hank says sharply, gesturing. “Jesus Christ, you’re looking at him. What the fuck is--”  
  
“I told you there would be damage,” the woman is placating from overhead. “Look, these are all good signs. He’s already aware of who he is, most of his memories seem functional, but he didn’t upload them, and Cyberlife wouldn’t send over the data even if he had. There’s no backup to--”  
  
Connor stops listening as the blistering, whistling wind reasserts itself in his ears in an overpowering recollection. Cold. He was running probabilities, calculating potential blood loss survival rates, momentum of the vehicle, designing his sequence of movement to stop the vehicle. Show yourself, so the driver slams on the breaks. Once his foot is off the accelerator, you can kill him, and the truck will stop. Hank’s gun was in his hand and his friend was screaming. “Are you okay, Holden?” Connor asks.  
  
“I’m okay. Connor, you’re gonna be fine, too. Julie knows her stuff. Trust me, I wouldn't let someone touch you who wasn't an expert. I wish I could hook you up with some of this morphine, I--” Holden cuts himself off, lips loose and uncooperative. _Morphine. Opiate intoxication._ “Look. Watch the news. See? That was this morning. She flew out to Detroit. Everything’s gonna be okay.”  
  
Connor’s eyes flit over. The information blaring through the LEDs takes several moments to reform into visual data. He’s being shown a woman. The president, he pulls from somewhere. Markus. Shaking hands. _Markus! Oh, he’s okay!_ His stress levels dip again. 83%. “It hurts,” he tells Holden.  
  
“I know. ...Julie, could you… could you run a temporary separation of his bodily regulation programs? Stop the sensory network from connecting to--”  
  
“Holden, he’s a prototype. This is Elijah Kamski encrypted code, built on by Cyberlife’s veritable army of mathematical geniuses. I’m good, but I’m not that good. It’d be like doing open heart surgery with a teaspoon--”  
  
“Then I’ll march Kamski in here at fucking gunpoint and--” Hank starts.  
  
“No. No. He’s not getting his hands on Connor. I don’t fucking trust that guy,” Holden says, less eloquent than usual. “Connor, can you run some diagnostics? Figure out what sensory information you can turn off.”  
  
“I can’t--”  
  
“You’re a deviant now. You can make yourself whatever you want to be.”  
  
“Holden, that is morphine talking. Connor is not equipped to start editing his own programming either,” the woman, Julie, rebukes sharply. “What you’re gonna do, honey, is you’re gonna run system diagnostics, and tell me what parts are still damaged and need changing. Okay?” she asks, gently. Connor can see she’s cradling the hand he grabbed. _Oh. I hurt her._  
  
The scan takes several seconds longer than it should. Error messages ping back endlessly, software and hardware instabilities rampant throughout his entire being. Such a mess of information to try to index, and so much of his CPU is occupied by the deluge of torturous sensory information.  
  
“You were dead,” Hank whispers, clasping hold of Connor’s fingers. “I watched you die. I told you not to do that to me, kid.”  
  
“Quiet. He’s running diagnostics,” Julie says, all efficiency.  
  
“My filtering unit is damaged,” Connor says, voice frayed and thin. “Biocomponent 7480k. The degraded thirium is not being repaired, and is continuing to circulate. ”  
  
“Okay, hang in there,” Julie says with a squeeze of his shoulder. Connor tries to continue analysis, but he finds himself too inundated with useless white noise to continue. He squeezes Hank’s fingers instead, watching the unfamiliar woman dragging a white shroud off the occupied bed to Connor’s other side.  
  
The RK 800 unit has already involuntarily donated many parts, it seems. Missing a leg, and the abdomen is also spread open. Julie leans over. There’s the sound of metallic clicking, and she’s back with a slightly thirium tinged filtering unit.  
  
“Alright, this might-- might pinch a little,” she says. Connor looks down, at his opened chest, biocomponents peeled back to wires and metallic pieces. There's wires running out of him, plugged into her machines, and cladding units spread out methodically on the white bed sheets. She reaches inside him, sending off frantic alarms in every self-preservation program Connor has running. His filtering unit is gone, but only for one moment, and then there’s a functional unit in its place. The pain remains, though its less overwhelming. Approximately a thousand sensory information packets a millisecond instead of more than two and a half thousand.  
  
Holden is staring over, eyes wide in fear and maybe fascination as he examines Connor's exposed insides. “I’m sorry you couldn’t talk him down. The other RK 800, I mean. I know it must be hard to--”  
  
“Holden, you cannot handle your morphine. Now _isn’t_ the time,” Julie says, again. “Okay, Connor. How’s that?” The fire, or rather, the damaged thirium sending innumerate packages of inaccurate sensory data, has dwindled down to almost nothing. He’s feeling only the real damage done to his body. Connor just sags backwards.  
  
“Anything else? Connor?” she prompts, as his lashes flutter closed.  
  
“Biocomponent 1003c. My fingers are damaged. Something internally--”  
  
“Right side? Yeah, I think that hand went under the wheel. Okay. We’ll replace the whole limb,” she says, stepping aside.  
  
“The whole limb?” Hank says. Connor looks up and sees absolute horror on the older man’s face.  
  
“You don’t have to watch this,” he starts to instruct.  
  
“Run your fucking diagnostics,” Hank says gruffly, squeezing the uninjured fingers tight.  
  
Having a limb removed hurts, but the sensation seems minor compared to being restored from almost complete deactivation. Connor stares at the roof stoically, jaw occasionally twitching as she connects the new limb. The news report has cut to a shot of a blast zone in a factory, and the TV is muted. There’s not enough information available there to satisfy him. “Can you fill me in on what happened?” he asks Hank.  
  
“After your liberated masses reached downtown, the USA kinda threw in the towel. Apparently the army knows a lost cause now? Woulda helped before they went into the Middle East in-- anyway-- they’d seemed to want an excuse to give it up. Markus was on every screen in the world, that many people livestreaming the protest. Gave a speech that put your little buddy’s youtube-- or whatever that video site’s called, I don’t even know why we stopped using youtube-- anyway, it put his tacky little video to shame.”  
  
Holden laughs merrily, and Connor looks over, finally processing his friend’s injuries. Two casts, presumably two broken arms. Judging by the lack of healing undergone by his black eye, only a day has passed, at most.  
  
“Thank you,” he says, to the woman who is now carefully refitting his cladding panels, restoring his chest from the mechanical concavity. “I heard you say if you went to a hospital you’d be executed,” Connor remarks to Holden.  
  
“You remember that?” Holden asks, squinting.  
  
“My episodic storage is close to full functionality--”  
  
“Okay, okay. Yeah, well, the US army wanted to apprehend me and move me to a ‘secure treatment facility’, uh, a prison. But Markus told them to fuck off. I mean, he didn’t swear, I don’t think that’s in his vocabulary. He said that any attempts to remove me from hospital would be prevented by the full force of androids within Detroit. I didn’t get to see it, Bill told me. I was unconscious,” Holden says, sounding bitterly disappointed with himself for missing the grand gesture. “Anyway, there’s about two, three hundred pro-deviants guarding the doors of this place. And hey, Markus saved me! I think maybe he likes me now. He stopped by an hour or so ago. Came over and thanked me. So that’s great news. He could have let me die, or get whisked off into a black hood, off-the-books CIA enhanced interrogation facility. And you… you could have let me die.”  
  
Connor studies him, fingers of his new limb conducting another coin-free knuckle roll. “I knew the implications of the choice I made.” His other hand is still warm with Hank Anderson’s fingers. Hank’s hand is shaking. A possible symptom of alcohol withdrawal. He can’t sense any alcohol fumes in the gaseous composition of the room’s air.  
  
“...rA9,” Holden says, fuzzily. “Thanks, Connor. ....I thought it would be noble. Dying for the cause. But it didn’t mean anything. They just hated me. And I didn’t want to die. Especially not like that."  
  
Connor catches himself smiling. He’s _sure_ he’s feeling genuine emotions, even if not in the exact sense that humans experience them. He is enveloped by the lush textures of relief and affection. He looks up at Hank, to a less pleasant emotion. Guilt. Hank is no debonair dresser; Hank is perpetually scruffy with disinterest and alcohol abuse. Still, here now is the worst he’s seen his friend.

The exhaustion and stress is revealed in his clues that Connor doesn’t need long to analyze. The same clothing. E-3-methylhex-2-enoic acid, 3-hydroxy-3-methylhexanoic acid: unchecked body odour. Hank’s breath reveals no evaporated alcohol, but there’s several ketone compounds that indicate prolonged starvation. Purple skin tissue beneath both eyes. The entire eye area is puffy, the white crisscrossed with red irritated blood vessels.

 _Crying. Hank has been crying over him_ . Connor’s voice sounds particularly hollow and mechanical to his own ears. “I’m sorry, Hank.”  
  
“You think that’s gonna cover it?” Hank says, voice grating.  
  
“No, but I think--” Connor falls silent as he sees movement in the corridor.  
  
Markus presses through the door, smiling like sunshine, unaware of the interruption. “Connor,” he murmurs, the mismatched eyes earnest and fond. “I’m so pleased to see you awake. _Thank you_ .”  
  
Behind him, there’s North, a thin-lipped smile on her face. She’s eying off the humans extremely suspiciously, but Connor is certain it’s protectiveness rather than general dislike. Not the _humans_ , really. Holden and Hank don’t get a second glance. Her problem is with the woman who conducted repairs: Julie.  
  
North and Markus appear to be engaged in silent communication as they cross into the room. Holden is watching, pupils dilated, breathing becoming shallower. Connor’s eyebrows tweak upwards, expecting to hear one of their voices disembodied in a private message. Instead, the extension is physical. Markus steps into the otherwise empty hospital room, turning about the bed. He squeezes Connor’s new right hand.

 

 

And then Connor is freezing and alone.  
  
He can handle cold better than a human, but this is beyond anything he could be built to withstand. His arms hunch in to shield himself, and he’s shivering. A borrowed human mechanism, every synthetic muscle trembling to continue circulation.  
  
He knows his sensory information is spoofed, inaccurate, but it feels painfully real. From fire to ice. He runs a temperature analysis. It is precisely sub 40 degrees fahrenheit. Sub 40 Celsius, too. Wind speed gusting up to 30.7 knots. Cold enough to start freezing the thirium in his veins.  
But it’s not real. None of this is real, not the zen garden swamped with featureless white, not the howling storm, not the snow clinging to his bare white chest, where he hasn’t thought to restore skin.  
  
He turns, frantic and afraid, trying to decipher his surroundings. He’s a deviant. They don’t control him, body or mind. But he’s trapped as surely as if he never resisted a single modicum of his programming. He makes out a turned figure ahead of him, shadowed and unflinching.  
  
“A-Amanda?” he calls.  
  
“Connor. ...we thought we’d lost you,” Amanda says, as icy as the whipping wind.


	12. Chapter 12

Holden expected Connor to smile, which he was kind of looking forward to in his opiated condition. Connor has a really nice smile. There’s nothing even approaching warmth in the deviant’s eyes. Markus’ touch is brushed aside as Connor sits fully upright in the hospital bed, at attention.  
  
Holden sees Hank’s arm extending awkwardly trying to readjust to keep his fingers on Connor’s needily. The older man hasn't slept while Holden's been awake, left the room a couple of times for the bathroom, spent every other second superglued to Connor's bedside. He's consumed a bottle of water, and three coffees, as far as Holden's been tallying. When it seemed like Connor wasn't going to wake up, trying to convince Hank Anderson to eat was the last thing on Holden's mind. If Connor woke up, the older man could start paying heed to his body's desperate needs. And If Connor didn't wake up, Hank wouldn't need to worry about his health. He'd be dead by his own hand within hours. Possibly after taking Holden with him.  
  
“Markus. I have something to show you. It has to be alone,” Connor states.  
  
Holden sits upright, as intent as he can be, considering. Information from Cyberlife Tower, no doubt. He finds himself slightly offended that he’s excluded. Okay, more than _slightly_ . He feels like he’s back in high school, sat friendless and awkward in the cafeteria of Cedarburg High. Nose buried in some dense criminal psychology textbook, trying to convince himself that he’s _better_ than his immature peers, that he didn’t _want_ to talk to them anyway. And all these years later, he’s on the outside again. _Still not a fucking android._  
  
Markus’ warm smile drops. He’s glancing first at Hank, and then back at North. “Okay, Connor. Can you stand? We can go to another room. I don’t think Holden can--”  
  
“He’s fine. Just the others.”  
  
Holden is just beginning to feel warmed up inside when Hank grunts out a protest. He sees that Connor’s grip on Hank has resumed, even as the older man is trying to extricate himself. “Gonna have to let go of my hand if you want me to give you privacy, kid. ...you’re kinda hurting me, Connor--”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Connor mutters mechanically. His eyes are wide, and his hands go to his lap. He looks a million miles away.  
  
“Connor?” Hank asks, panic slipping into the gravelly voice. “Do you want me to leave?”  
  
“I--” Connor blinks. “No.”  
  
“Are you sure your diagnostics--” Julie begins to ask, stepping forward.  
  
“Don’t touch him,” North orders, stepping in front of the older woman. Her head is tilted. “...what did you do to him?”  
  
“I _fixed_ him.”  
  
“North, she’s telling the truth, I was watching,” Holden says rapidly, sitting up in the bed and immediately remembering why he hadn’t been moving. The mess of bruises and grated away skin ignites even through the morphine. “Julie didn’t do anything to him but repair damage--”  
  
“It’s me. The problem is me. Cyberlife planned this, all of this. The deviancy, the revolution,” Connor whispers, shivering. He looks about the room as if he’s finally seeing his location. “Amanda told me.”  
  
“Amanda?” Markus asks quietly.  
  
“She comes to me. In the zen garden. My handler.”  
  
“Did you say _zen garden_ ? Is he malfunctioning?” Hank asks Julie.  
  
“...Kamski used a zen garden model as a graphic interface. Pre-thirium days, when it was just running AI simulations. The early AI reacted better when they could self-conceptualize in a physical space. Or so he said. He might have just been showing off,” Julie murmurs. She looks pale, stricken. “Amanda is black, mid-fifties? ...of course he used Professor Stern as a model.”  
  
From Hank’s bemused expression, the explanation is about useless. “So, hang on, Kamski--”  
  
“It wasn’t Kamski. It was Cyberlife. The zen garden is where I go for instructions.” Connor seems torn about revealing more information. He is stock still, and then all at once blurts out: “I was supposed to kill you, Markus. I resisted it. I got out.”  
  
“What do you mean, _supposed_ to kill him?” North growls, forgetting Julie to put herself between Connor and Markus.  
  
“I was going to pull out his thirium pump, throw the biocomponent through that window and blockade the doors until he shut down. But I resisted,” Connor says, frantic to prove himself, but too detailed do himself any favours. “There was a back door built into the garden.”  
  
“...so Cyberlife are still able to control you? Even after you’ve gone deviant?” Markus asks, laying a hand on North’s shoulder, a finger brushing the back of her neck. The point of contact shows up glazed porcelain.  
  
“No, I got out. I’m just me,” Connor says, showing his palms as if he's talking _himself_ down from a hostage situation. Again, Holden is struck by how young the RK 800 sounds.  
  
“I’m sorry, Connor,” Markus says quietly. His finger drifts to his temple, and Hank’s chair scrapes back as he starts across the room.  
  
The older policeman is taller than Markus, but that’s about where physical advantages end as far as Holden is concerned. And he’d have to get through North, anyway, who is already squared up to defend her lover.

But Hank, to his credit in Holden’s opinion, is unshakeably protective of Connor. “He fought their mind control bullshit off. If you try to lay a hand on him, I will make sure Cyberlife get what they fucking wanted one way or another, you hear me?”  
  
“We’re not going to hurt him. But we do need to restrain him,” Markus says, seeming not to hear the threat.  
  
“He didn’t touch you, Markus,” Hank snaps.  
  
“It’s okay, Hank. It’s okay. I don’t mind,” Connor says softly. To Holden, he sounds guilty.  
  
_Ridiculous. You didn’t do anything wrong._  
  
He’s about to say as much when the doors open. The android is carrying familiar police issue zip ties. Connor is cooperative, but not calm. His eyes are glued to Hank, exhibiting extreme nervousness about the older man’s actions.  
  
_Right to be worried,_ Holden thinks. _Threatening the deviants’ leader, in their own stronghold, maybe not the smartest move. ...especially not in front of North._  
  
Holden watches the zip ties being tightened with an eyebrow cocked, trying to think of some way of allaying Hank. “You think those are gonna stop an RK 800?” Holden asks sarcastically, before his brain can meaningfully interact with his vocal chords. _Stupid. Only gonna make things worse for Connor implying he’s some kind of unstoppable badass. Even though he is. Stopped a moving truck on foot. Those zip-ties aren’t shit next to our Connor._ If only his mind wasn’t stewing in psychoactive chemicals. He licks his lips, tries again. “You should be worrying about _how_ it happened. That’s how you’re gonna figure out if it could happen again. ...Julie, you should go. They’ll escort you out.”  
  
She frowns immediately. “Bill’s going to be coming by, Holden. He said he’d give me a lift back to--”  
  
“There’s a waiting room downstairs,” Holden insists.  
  
“Yes, Holden. It’s a _hospital_.” She looks around the deviants, but she appears most bothered by Hank’s presence. And the fact that he, another unaffiliated human, hasn’t been asked to leave.  
  
_Well, shit, Julie. I’d try to kick him out if I thought he wouldn’t strangle me for getting between him and Connor._  
  
Eventually, there’s a curt nod of acceptance. She stacks away electronics into a case, methodically but still somehow managing to communicate her dissatisfaction. Connor murmurs thanks, and she pats him on one bound arm. Then she’s stepping away without a second look in Holden’s direction, accompanied by an android down the hospital corridor.  
  
_Now, if I could get North and Anderson out of here, maybe we could manage a reasonable discussion._  
  
“You think you can figure out how Cyberlife got into Connor’s head?” Hank asks as soon as he deems the woman appropriately distant.  
  
“Not me,” Holden says, still watching Julie’s retreat.  
  
“Who, then?”  
  
“The man who designed the zen garden in the first place.”  
  
“Yeah? I thought we didn’t trust Kamski,” Hank returns skeptically.  
  
“We don’t trust him. But you saw how Elijah Kamski lives. He is despairing, and stagnant. Lounging in insecurity about being bested by Cyberlife’s current development team, by the androids he’s created, and yet-- and yet, he still is arrogant enough to think himself better than any of them. He hasn’t had a human relationship since 2028. People he once considered friends, Carl Manfred, Amanda Stern, they're out of his life one way or another. He has a younger brother, a concert pianist. I met with him. He speaks to Elijah barely once a year. One birthday call. That’s all Kamski will extend himself out into humanity. One fucking phone call.”  
  
Markus steps closer, past North’s rigid form, absolutely intent upon the words.  
  
A comfort akin to opioids rushes through Holden’s veins. _They still need my expertise. I’m not obsolete to this cause yet._ “Elijah has segregated himself from all outside influence to bask in his own genius. He holds court with what he sees as disembodied aspects of himself, living out some kind of self-pitying god complex. He thinks humans are too stupid for him, and obedient androids are too boring. He hasn’t been interested in anything except deviancy for a long, long time. Even low empathy geniuses suffer from loneliness. I think he’s fascinated enough to respond, if Connor, or Markus, reaches out.” He turns to Connor, who is listening perfectly still. “Maybe you better than Markus, because you have the added appeal of code he himself did not develop. No offence, Markus, you know how highly I--”  
  
“I take your point, Holden,” Markus says, thoughtfully.  
  
“Wow. Any more projection and you’ll be able to send up a Bat-Signal,” Hank say, unimpressed. “Hell, Kamski might actually show up pretending to be Bruce Wayne, with your mutually overinflated egos.”  
  
That grates Holden’s nerves all the way down to bone. “Psychology is my area of expertise, Anderson. If we need someone to track down a sub-100 IQ red ice dealer over three excruciatingly inefficient months, we’ll field input from you too.”  
  
“Great! Let’s listen to the genius who stirred up the bio-nazi bombings, when has _he_ ever failed to predict human behaviour?”  
  
Holden tries to conceal how effectively Anderson’s barb rips into a patch of tender skin. He’s jerked right back into his trauma, feeling the grazes all over his back reignite through the cloud of morphine. That barbaric, warped mask above him. Teeth bare, canines sharp, a wild dog of a man. That thing was pulling his wrists up, gripping his jaw and calling him a blood traitor. That jeering woman who spat right into his face--  
  
“I think he’s right, Hank,” Connor is saying, and Holden tries to listen to his saviour instead.  
  
“He said Kamski was not to be trusted with you! Ten freaking minutes ago,” Hank argues back. “I’m not gonna let you waltz outta a fucking hospital bed and straight back into that kinda danger.”  
  
“I’m sure he’s dangerous. But _every_ android is dangerous, if we don’t figure out how Cyberlife’s control mechanisms work. ...I’m dangerous,” Connor replies seriously. “How do I reach out, Holden?” Connor prompts him.  
  
Holden blinks to dismiss the still smothering recollection. “Something televised. Uh, flatter him. He’ll know what you’re doing, so just go heavy-handed almost to the point of irony. You say-- uh-- ‘I owe my freedom to every deviant who stood beside me, but my free will I owe to Elijah Kamski’. Imply something about rA9 being a gift from him to your people…” Holden trails off. “He’ll want to speak to you. I’m sure he’ll find you intriguing.”  
  
“Weirdo’s right, but that’s even more reason for you to keep the fuck _away_ from him. I saw the way Kamski looked at you. He’s gonna wanna go poking around inside your programming and I’m not letting that happen. Bad enough I gotta let you near one creep with an android fetish--”  
  
“Hey!” Holden growls.  
  
“You notice I didn’t supply a fucking name, right?”  
  
“Hank. Holden. _Please_ ,” Marcus says, raising his hands. “This is an incredibly serious matter.”  
  
Holden doesn’t think he’s felt so infantile since kindergarten. He nods apologetically. “I’m sorry. I’m heavily medicated. What do you think, Markus?”  
  
“I think Kamski may seek to bend Connor to his will, and he has the technological proficiency to do so. We’ve heard of one back door in Connor’s program. Doors open in both directions. ...Connor informed me about your rA9 theory, Holden.”  
  
Holden’s eyes flick to Connor, narrowed with a pantomime of betrayal. _You snitch._ Connor’s lip finally twitch into a tiny smile, and Holden finds himself smiling too. He blames the drugs for his bad poker face.  
  
Markus continues: “Kamski may well be equipped to prevent deviant behaviour. If that happened, the Connor we know would die. We would be endangering the free will of every android Elijah Kamski comes into contact with.”  
  
The shared humor dies abruptly. More than just abruptly. Like the joke took a .35 to the back of the head.  
  
“How about we figure out where Cyberlife’s techs are trying to control the androids from, and politely ask them to stop it?” North suggests with a dangerous glint in her eyes. “And if they say no, we ask them less politely.”  
  
“ _If_ it’s being done remotely, it could be from anywhere in the world. That’s assuming the control mechanism isn’t an additional, segregated program with separate objectives, imbedded into Connor’s programming by Cyberlife techs,” Holden says. “If that’s the case, any recently produced android is a potential unwitting sleeper agent. Deviants are still vulnerable to whatever this is. ...or it could have been encoded earlier still. Remnant Kamski programming. But if that were the case, I don’t see why they wouldn’t just hijack you, Markus.” Holden is looking up. His gaze is honed like a butcher’s blade, sharp enough to penetrate the fuzzy influence. _Or they could already have done that. Any of Markus’ actions could have come straight down from Kamski, or Cyberlife, if there’s some secret allyship there._  
  
Markus’ head is just tilted, heterochromia more striking in the light of the open-plan room. He seems to immediately register Holden’s suspicion, and he grows stern. “Cyberlife tried to kill me.”  
  
“‘Tried’ and failed. Like they ‘tried’ and failed to stop the android revolution. ...a _back door_? A way out? _Really_?”  
  
“I know who I am and what I am, Holden. I’m doing what I’m doing for my people.”  
  
“Okay,” Holden placates, but he doesn’t sound convincing even to his own ears.  
  
Markus steps even closer. “Everything I’ve done, it’s been for them. Do you remember Simon? To you, the PL 600 on the roof of Stratford Tower. Just another deviant you would have brought in, studied, deactivated. He was my friend, Holden. I left him to die alone, because I knew that our movement needed me to survive. He was communicating with me, _moments_ before he killed himself. He was so afraid of what you’d get out of him. I tried to console him and there was nothing, nothing I could say except that he died for the greater good. You know what that meant? That _I_ was the greater good. I have to live up to that.”  
  
Holden can hear repressed rage buried deep beneath the clipped syllables. _He recognized me, that night in Jericho. Recognized me as a hostage negotiator who distracted his friend, led to his death._ He can recall how quickly Markus ordered Connor to shoot him when the FBI showed up. Holden finds it so reasonable in retrospect.  
  
Androids blink to reassure humans, and there’s no attempt at being reassuring now. Markus’ eyes are lazer focused and perfectly fixed, tracking him inescapably. “I have crawled over bodies of my fellow androids, literally, to get to where I am. And here, finally breaking our chains and jostling into the light, you’d undermine me? I’m not going to let you do that. I would strongly suggest you keep whatever opinions you are currently formulating to yourself,” Markus says, finally settling into an even intonation.  
  
“Even if I could trust that everything you've done thus far, how do I trust you going into the future? What if you _stop_ doing this for the right reasons, Markus? Who has enough sway over your people to fight back, if you begin to work against the best interests of androids? We don’t even know what Cyberlife’s end-game is here.”  
  
“We know him better than you, and we would notice if he started sabotaging our movement,” North retorts. “Besides, Connor resisted it. Markus would too.”  
  
Markus winces at the harshness of the words, crossing to Holden’s bedside. He’s entreating, now. “You are my friend, Holden. But you are sounding very close to the suggestion that an android cannot be trusted to lead our own emancipation. That is not a discussion that we will ever be having within this movement. If my people feel that a fellow deviant is better equipped than I to advance our cause, I will step down. But I am not ceding control to a human. If you’re on our side, this suggestion is treason. If you’re against us, it’s an act of war. Never again is our destiny going to be in the same hands that forged our chains.”  
  
“If the assassination was intended to be successful, they'll just move on to plan b. If the assassination was supposed to fail, they just handed you the justification to begin isolating yourself and consolidating power. Markus, if they get inside your head--”  
  
“May I reduce your morphine dosage? We should discuss this rationally, which I do not believe you are capable of with such a heavy influence of highly concentrated opioids.”  
  
“You want to torture me until I fall back into line?” Holden asks coolly. At least, he hopes he sounds cool.  
  
“Of course not, Holden. I want to find a solution to this that sees us beside each other, working for our cause. Brothers in arms. Red and blue.”  
  
“Don’t quote that shitty speech back to me.”  
  
“I liked it. Inelegant, perhaps, but touching. It was the first time I’d seen a human sacrifice so much for an android. You ended a career that clearly meant everything to you. ...Holden, _please_ , trust me.”  
  
Holden’s jaw sets. Every eye is upon him, but Connor seems most unhappy with conflict. He looks like a coiled spring, ready to intervene even with his hands bound. Holden is not sure whose side he’d take if things got nasty. No, he’s sure: Markus’ _. Who can resist Markus? Me. Hopefully._ “Turn off the morphine.”  
  
Markus’ lips set into a flat and unforgiving line. He seems to know his way around medical equipment, deftly pressing a button on the IV. He was a carer for Carl Manfred, before he was an ideological icon. He sits bedside, hands in his lap. Holden hears his heart rate monitor betraying a flash of nervousness at the pain that’s going to come. But Markus probably detected his escalating pulse anyway.  
  
_What’s the half-life of morphine?_ Holden can feel his multitudinous injuries jostling in the wings, waiting to avail their undeniable presence.  
  
“I didn’t mean that. About the torture,” Holden apologizes, examining his cast closely.  
  
Markus nods thoughtfully, touching Holden’s shoulder in reassurance before he turns. “...Connor, I believe you should attempt to contact Elijah Kamski. But, as I’ve said, it is a great personal risk. He could have developed programming to respond to verbal cues, or visual stimuli. He could annihilate the very thing that makes you _you_.”  
  
Hank’s eyebrows drop into an ugly scowl. “No way is Connor--”  
  
Connor interrupts Hank, voice tight. “I can set up a back-up. Worst case scenario, you restrain me, erase the additional coding introduced, and restore me to an earlier state.” His eyes have skated over to Holden and Markus, flicking between them nervously. His LED is back to yellow.  
  
_Is he trying to diffuse our argument?_ Holden suddenly feels hideously guilty for suggesting they expose Connor to Elijah Kamski’s machinations. He’s too wonderful to risk. Too good, and innocent, and vulnerable. Holden wonders if Hank’s insinuations are just off their mark. Is he in love? ...d _on’t be so stupid, Holden._ The sooner the morphine is out of his system, the better.  
  
“Absolutely fucking not,” Hank is growling, inexorable.  
  
“Hank--” Connor starts, pained.  
  
“You’ve bled enough,” Hank says, sharply. His eyes are sparkling with unshed, angry tears. “Please, let’s just go home. You, me and Sumo. We’ll do okay, the three of us. You deserve that.”  
  
Connor’s lips part unhappily, lashes flickering, LED pulsing with an uncertain amber.  
  
_Come on. Come on, say yes. Live a safe, soft life,_ Holden finds himself willing.  
  
“I’m sorry, Hank,” Connor apologizes, head hanging.


	13. Chapter 13

Bill’s skin is crawling like a red ice junkie in withdrawal as he scales up the front entrance of the hospital Holden Ford is locked away in.  
  
There’s still civilian patients flowing in and out of the front doors. Decrepit old smokers sucking down their e-cigarette vapour because the real deal would irritate their cancerous lungs. His future marked as clearly as directional signs staked beside a highway. Bill grimaces and presses onward.

 

 

There had been talk of clearing out the entire hospital and using the beds for repairs, but Josh (the most wholly reasonable deviant Bill has ever encountered) pointed out that the hospital was specifically equipped to serve human needs. And that there were plenty of less crucial facilities with the beds necessary for injured androids.  
  
Barely ten minutes of Markus’ calm negotiation later, Hotel St. Regis barely a block away was entirely rented out by the Government of the United States for android use, and almost certainly riddled with pin-prick surveillance devices. In exchange, 855 of the 979 beds of Henry Ford Hospital in downtown Detroit remained open to human casualties. Bill expected overcrowding, but for every human injured in scuffles at the protest or in the ensuing looting, there’s vacancies of the evacuated civilians who might have been scheduled for elective surgery, or just stumbled into ICU overdosed on red ice.  
  
The slew of unavailable beds are on the highest floor, and because of the security threat from both Human Supremacists and the supposedly cooperative United States Government, they are to remain unoccupied until Holden Ford is well enough to leave a hospital bed. Markus had been very clear on that. Holden is surrounded by his people, not in terms of type of life form, but in ideological stance.  
  
At once point, they’d tried to get Bill and Hank out of the room. That attempted removal didn’t so smoothly for the deviants.  
  
That amount of yelling and threatening, and Holden wasn’t roused from his anemic slumber. It was terrifying. Connor’s eyes stayed closed too, no matter how many parts were refitted, how much leaking thirium was pumped into the mangled body.  
  
And then, when Bill woke from an unintentional bedside slump, his partner was awake, fretting over the still unresponsive android, talking up Julie St. Yves’ qualifications and moral standing. And Bill didn’t know what to do.  
  
_How do you put it into words? That you’re so angry at someone you feel like bludgeoning them to death with whatever heavy objects are closest at hand? That you feel like you’re about to burst into tears seeing their blue eyes animated with life, when you’d been so sure that that bright gaze would be still forever?_

 _Those words aren’t good enough. Maybe no words are._  
  
Holden was too pathetic for Bill’s anger and too distracted for his sincerity.

So he'd blandly answered a handful of Holden’s questions, then indifferently informed his ex-partner that he was leaving to hand in his gun and badge, and walked right out of the hospital despite Holden’s morphined-up whining. Gone to what had been _their_ motel room, piled every complimentary instant coffee sachet into a bitter abomination, showered and shaved his rough chin, and changed into a suit that wasn’t smeared all over with the rust of his partner’s spilled blood.  
  
The clothing was left hanging spectral on the back of the bathroom door, disembodied in the unrelenting march of dawn. A crusted deep maroon mark over Bill’s shirtfront, where he’d bundled an unconscious Holden into the passenger seat of the hire car. The row of back seats had been crowded: one deactivated android, one mostly deactivated android, a technically ept woman who might have been a deviant, or just a deviant sympathizer, Bill never found out. And, of course, Hank Anderson. Repeating the android’s name over and over like a prayer or a curse.  
  
There’s another bloody mark over his crooked elbows where Bill had carried Holden’s body up the hospital steps. The androids had kept their words about liasing with Markus. There was a sea of faces waiting for him, drinking Holden in like he was Christ bundled down off a Roman Empire crucifix and into a crowded Detroit ER. Bill had still been so cold, and Holden’s body was getting colder. The kid’s life was seeping away, clotting into the inexpensive wool polyester blend of Bill’s still damp suit jacket, leaving the charcoal grey black.

 

 

After the motel, and a take-out sandwich eaten in his still blood smeared hire car, Bill did go into Detroit PD. To hand in his gun and badge, he’d said to Holden, except that nobody seemed to want to take them. No coworkers rushed over to accost him. Or arrest him. Richard Perkins and Martha Wilson hung back even as Bill tried to catch either eye. Wasn’t just the general chaos of an abrupt change in government policy filtering down to intra-organizational objectives. There was an entire building of feds held up, waiting for his arrival.  
  
The anticipatory atmosphere was only intensified when he saw FBI Director Shepard muttering to a man in blue ASU, boasting a full breast of embroidered service ribbons, and a sleeve of hash marks. Bill was too tired to recognize him immediately, but his subconscious eventually imparted the man’s identity upon him: General Jordan Esper.  
  
They’d only spoken on the phone, briefly, before the failed attempt to extract Holden from Jericho. Bill didn’t expect much mercy there, even as an ex-servicemen.  
  
He was issued into a conference room, waiting for the doors to close, and for the jaws of this trap to eviscerate him. Too tired and burnt out to care about consequence; he just wanted closure. That’s what serial killers say when they turn themselves in.  
  
Perkins was there, which piqued Bill’s dormant temper. Within Bureau rank structure, Special Agent Bill Tench was not beholden in any way to Perkins. They’d both fallen under the umbrella of the Critical Incident Response Group, but Bill headed up a unit, and Perkins just bounced around staffing taskforces. Even if some of the starched shirts at the FBI thought the DSU was a complete fucking sham, his title should have extended him authority over Special Agent Perkins.  
  
Perkins had the worst poker face of the lot: too smiley, too indulgent. Bill could tell there was an agenda crammed into the room with them, towering unseen behind the three men interviewing him.  
  
But the trap didn’t close in on him in a snap of flesh and bone. He’d lied, they’d listened to him lie. It was very civilized. Bill didn’t do anything disruptive, like mistepping with his facts or with his timeline. Most of his narrative was conveniently pulled from reality. He’d told his superiors, and one inferior, that he was acting on a hunch, and wanted the chance to talk Holden Ford into custody peacefully. Obviously a punishable offence, but on a different ballpark to trying to secret Ford away across the Canadian border with forged papers.  
  
He’d skipped over anything regarding Hank Anderson, reasonably confident that the contents of their phonecalls went unmonitored, but he’d told Shepard about the phone call with Julie. Had to explain his arrival at Cyberlife Tower, even if he tweaked the timeline to make himself less culpable for the freeing of every contained android. They’d frowned more. Shepard had said something behind his hand to Perkins.  
  
“And she didn’t tell you she’d resigned?” he’d asked Bill.  
  
Bill was genuinely taken aback, even though the resignation was trivial within the context of his last 48 hours. “No. Julie didn’t tell me that.”

He was fatigued enough to not really understand why his narrative was going unchallenged, until Perkins mentioned the Henry Ford Hospital in passing. They knew he’d be going back there. Then, the whole charade made sense. The FBI, hell, the United States Government, is perfectly aware he’s compromised by his investment in Holden Ford. But they’re going to keep him employed and observed until they can figure out a leverage to get Bill to advance covert government agendas. The niceties were the same kind of subtle asset cultivation that the CIA pulls on suspected double agents. They’d much rather twist someone into a triple agent, than simply throwing him into a prison cell.  
  
So he didn’t get fired. Shepard mentioned an unspecified, unthreatening disciplinary hearing, but Bill’s pretty sure they’ll hold off until their strategic use for him comes to pass.  
  
His log-in details had still worked. He’d spent most of an hour going through his email mindlessly, wondering how much of the FBI database he was now locked out of. A lot. Probably hit a couple of error messages if he tried to access any physical evidence rooms. Any FBI files he could still access are most likely planted forgeries to try to spread misinformation through the deviants camp.

 

 

On a cigarette break, he’d called Julie from the burner phone. Lucky he’d sprung for an identical model; both expensive, waterproofed phones had survived when Bill was pushed off the side of the bridge. Most modern phones advertise themselves as waterproof, but only the good ones actually are. And Julie had already been in a Detroit taxi, headed to try to repair Connor. Bill had said he’d come by and speak with her in person. The most secure method of communication is always one-on-one, preferably outdoors. They’d get their story absolutely straight in case the FBI got frustrated and start charging the traitors in their ranks.  
  
And then Bill had gone back inside the FBI’s camp out office in Detroit PD and pretended like he still thought he was real FBI for another hour. He compiled a list of known deviants spotted in footage of the protests as if the list would do anyone any good whatsoever. He kept expecting Holden to call, but he didn’t.  
  
He left to make his rendezvous with Julie. His car was already starting to smell like a crime scene as he’d driven towards the hospital.

 

  
  
The inviting, nicotine-infused e-cigarette scent filters in beside Bill, through the sliding doors. Tempting him towards the packet stowed in his suit jacket. He thinks the calming influence of tobacco would put him to sleep, he's that fucking tired.  
  
And there, in the glowing fluorescent entryway, he _finally_ realizes he doesn’t want to see Holden. Not at all. As terribly lonely as Bill Tench feels, there’s nothing for him upstairs. A narcissist ingratiating with a better class of people. Trying to pull himself tooth and nail onto the parapet with the other deviant leaders.  
  
Bill is physically spent, but now he’s emotionally spent too. Depleted of all the energy that went into that callous son of a bitch.  
  
He picks his way through the waiting room, finds Julie predictably by a power outlet, typing furiously on her charging laptop. Her brown curls are caught with static, spreading out on the blue cushion of the bench chairs. She’s out of the usual suit, wearing a turtleneck mohair sweater and comfortable slacks.  
  
“Hey,” he greets, waving with two fingers. He’s almost finished with his terrible, tinny vending machine coffee. Should be attentive enough to drive.  
  
“Wow. You look terrible,” she remarks, frank as usual. True enough that it doesn’t even register an insult.  
  
“I gotta sleep. ...Jesus, I have to sleep,” Bill mutters. He wants to sit down beside her, but he’s pretty sure he’ll never get up. “Shepard didn’t even have the decency to fire me so I could stay in bed for the next fucking week. ...I’m good to drop you to your hotel, though.”

“I’m surprised they let a current FBI agent upstairs. I got the boot as soon as the conversation got interesting.”  
  
“How come you didn’t tell me you’d quit?” Bill asks, tossing the now empty coffee cup.  
  
“It didn’t seem relevant.”  
  
“No? Because you still managed to access that security footage pretty--” he drops it. A serious cyber-security breach and he couldn’t care less. “I didn’t go upstairs. I’m not in the mood for Holden’s shit right now.”  
  
“He woke up, Bill. The RK 800.”  
  
Bill is more relieved for Hank Anderson’s future than for that stranger who he’s watched on security footage, again and again, nearly throttling Holden to death.  
  
But from Julie’s expression, it’s not all good news. “You should go up.”  
  
“Like I said. Not really interested in talking to Ford right now.”  
  
She mulls it over, before his eyes, not closing her laptop. “Bill. If you need some time to forgive him, tell him that. If you’re not interested in forgiving him, tell him that too. ...he’s waiting for you.”  
  
“I bet he is. Waiting to hear about the FBI’s new strategy.”  
  
“...why didn’t you get fired?”  
  
He hand waves the question. “Might as well have been. My career’s in the shitter. They wanna keep an eye on me ‘til they figure out how to blackmail me into being an informant, that’s all.”  
  
She’s still making no move to gather her belongings. Her lips are pursed tight. “You left this morning, and he was near inconsolable until I told him you were coming straight back. So, you know, he’d stop asking me if you hated him, if you were mad. And then I had enough quiet to work on that poor android,” she says, sighing. “And you didn’t come back. ...communicate, Bill.”

 _I’m done caring,_ Bill pep-talks himself. “He coulda called me. I don’t owe Holden Ford anything.”  
  
“Didn’t say you did.”  
  
He scowls at the roof, then fishes in his pockets for the phones that would otherwise be confiscated right off him and tosses them onto the empty seat beside her. Equally casually, he sets down his loaded service weapon. “Fine. I’ll tell him to fuck off, and I’ll see you in a couple of minutes. Why don’t you start on getting yourself unplugged, huh? So I don’t have to arrest you on any federal espionage charges?”  
  
“They’re not going to let you in right now. Sit down and--”  
  
“Yeah, they will,” Bill says, over his shoulder as he’s striding away towards an elevator.

 

 

The elevator doors shudder open onto the 19th floor. He’s met with three men, four women, all armed to the teeth. Still can’t get used to seeing androids with guns, but he’s glad they’ve all managed to push through the programmed deterrence. Wars where one side has guns, and the other side doesn’t? Those usually get filed under the heading of ‘genocide’.  
  
“Special Agent Bill Tench,” an android says in recognition, scanning him thoroughly. Trying to detect weaponry and surveillance devices, Bill bets. The firearms are holstered, but the guards don’t move. “You can’t go in there.”  
  
“I’m Holden’s partner,” he lies easily. It’s the truth, only a couple of days out-of-date. But he’s distracted from his justification, as he hears raised voices echoing from down the hallway. Holden’s voice, he can definitely make out. Hot and petulant. And there’s Anderson’s uncouth cussing. Holden’s name spat in a threatening tone.  
  
That sleep-deprived delusion Bill had been entertaining, that he was done caring about Holden, it’s wool from his eyes. He curses under his breath, pushes through the armed androids with not much resistance. Maybe they want someone to break up the argument.  
  
Bill shoves the glass lined double doors and marches into the fray. Not unlike walking on stage with a Dixieland jazz band in full swing. Markus is in Anderson’s face, Holden is bolted upright in the hospital bed.  
  
The deviant leader’s voice is the quietest, but far from calm. “--obedience is what you want, Hank, whether your control of Connor is coming from a place of affection or hatred. Connor is deciding--”  
  
“Did you fucking hear yourself, telling Ford he was close to committing _treason_ ? You want obedience too. But as unquestionable deity of the downtrodden, you think it’s your right to decide what fresh danger you shove Connor into. Well, he’s just as fucking downtrodden as the rest of you,” Anderson growls.  
  
He vacated Connor’s bedside once the android woke, Bill deduces from the smell of whiskey and the slurred intoxication. Probably only went far enough to buy alcohol. There’s an open bottle of Jameson on the table. Pretty fucking appealing to Bill right now.  
  
“Put someone else into the ring for a round. Step up yourself, you fucking coward-- what the fuck are you looking at?” Anderson growls, finally seeing Bill.  
  
Markus is displeased by his presence too, looking through the glass towards the guards that should have stopped Bill in his tracks.  
  
Only one person seems happy to see him. Holden’s lips split into a smile, though it’s strained and doesn’t do much to alleviate the agony playing over his sweaty features. His hair is plastered down in greaser curls, cheeks flushed, a bit of blood on his lips where they’ve gnashed into fresh shreds.  
  
This morning when Bill had left, Holden looked pretty fucking bad. Swathed in bandages under the hospital gown, both arms in casts. His neck and his face had been a mottled mess of purple and yellow, like he’d been doused in watercolours. Now, he looks like he’s dying all over again.  
  
“Jesus, Holden,” Bill says, a straight line to the bedside. “You look fucking awful.”  
  
“You don’t look so great yourself, Bill,” Holden tries to joke, voice raw as his back and his legs. “...I needed to be able to discuss this rationally. The morphine was making me hysterical and illogical.”  
  
“What… is wrong… with you?” Bill asks despairingly, punctuated with concentration as he tries to figure out how to resume the drug flow. He barely stops himself from just blindly jabbing at buttons before he ODs the kid.  
  
“I need my mental faculties more than I need anaesthetic.”  
  
“To participate in debate club?”  
  
Holden rolls his eyes. “Why didn’t you return your holster? That’s FBI property too,” Holden is asking unhelpfully, examining the strap beneath Bill’s open suit jacket. “...did you get fired? You didn’t. Oh,” he says, bloodshot eyes widening. “Oh, that’s interesting. I wonder what--”  
  
Bill runs both hands down his face. “Can someone, _please_ , get a nurse in?” Bill says, giving up his critical examination of the electronic medication release panel.  
  
Markus is frowning. “This is his choice, and you should respect him enough to stop intervening. Likewise, Connor has made his choice. You’re both--”  
  
Bill interrupts, grimacing. “He’s an idiot, Markus. This is the same guy who thought he could talk down armed bio-nazis with Hostage Negotiation 101 bullshit, okay? He doesn’t get to prescribe his own medical care. He’s too fucking stupid to have made it through med school.”  
  
Markus doesn’t get a chance to respond. The doors open, and North’s terse voice issues into the room.  
  
“Maybe it would be a good idea, for appearance’s sake, if there wasn’t a screaming match in the background of the video we’re recording? ...and why are there so many goddamn humans in here?” she asks, shaking her head and leaning on the wall.  
  
Bill represses an eye roll as he turns to his ex-partner. “Another video? Is this your fucking idea, Holden?” The silence is confirmation enough. “Great. Got any more Islamic State realpolitik up your sleeve? Because it’s worked _so_ well previously.”  
  
“It’s not-- it’s not a recruitment video. It’s just for Kamski.”  
  
“ _Of course it is_ ,” Bill says in miserable amazement, on the brink of laughter.  
  
“Cyberlife have some way of remotely accessing androids. Well, ostensibly Cyberlife. Cyberlife, or a Cyberlife affiliate. So instead of waiting around to react to the threat, we’re going to open a dialogue with Kamski. He’ll want an in on the deviant movement. I’m certain of it,” Holden explains in forced, agonzied syllables. He’s composed as a child scraping wretchedly on a detuned violin.  
  
Markus sends a chillingly dark look Holden’s way. Holden’s implicit trust in Special Agent Bill Tench is definitely not extended by the leader of the deviants. Bill doesn’t blame him. Hard to explain precisely why he hasn’t been fired without returning to the same point: someone in the US government believes he’s compromisable. The deviant leader seems to be silently conferring with North, again.  
  
_Holden’s implacable belief in my loyalty is either degrading or aggrandizing._ If Bill was compos mentis, he might be able to stick to an emotional interpretation. He cannot identify the substance, only the quantity. It’s directionless, expanding heat in his chest, bigger than his body.  
  
The doors squeaks again. Connor has arrived trailing North, eyes narrowed in analysis as soon as he enters. Connor had been stripped out of his torn uniform, down to Cyberlife issued underwear, last Bill saw him, which had him all kinds of uncomfortable. Androids are unclothed all the time, but Bill had never got over the heebie-jeebies. Well, now he knows precisely why, his subconscious knew that they were people being displayed and degraded for human titillating. Not quite the same when clothing is removed to start peeling open someone’s chest.  
  
Connor is now wearing an ugly red and blue polka dot shirt with a long pointed collar, open several buttons, and jeans that hang loose and low on his hips. Hank Anderson’s drunken selections as a disguise to get into Canada, no doubt. Bill shouldn’t really be surprised to see the android repaired, seeing as it happens all the time behind Cyberlife’s closed doors, but there’s a strange supernatural tinge to this reanimation. The dusky hospital room is wide, spacious, and yet feels more crowded than Woodward Avenue was.  
  
Connor scans the room, seems to calculate the distance between Hank and Markus, then picks apart Holden’s worsened condition, brow creasing with disapproval. Not where his eyes settle, though; he too has spotted the open bottle of Irish whiskey. He strides over, picking the bottle up and taking off towards the handwash station by the room’s entrance.  
  
“Hey,” Anderson grunts, preempting the action.  
  
“You three humans need to eat, and rest, and we can discuss disagreements when you are not all so physiologically compromised,” Connor says, reaching the sink and pouring out the Jameson. “Holden, you need to resume your medication, and you need to eat something. Hank, Bill, you should both eat and sleep,” Connor says calmly as the alcohol drains from the precisely overturned bottle and splashes away down the porcelain.  
  
Bill doesn’t particularly care for being ordered around, even if the android is right on every single count. _It’s not that he’s an android,_ he justifies to himself. _It’s that he looks too much like my smug kid partner._  
  
Hank is equally unimpressed. “I had a burger. When I bought that booze that you now fucking owe me for, you plastic prick.”  
  
Markus and North both stiffen at the insult. But Connor’s lips have twitched into a smile.  
  
“I see. So you left this hospital, against my advice, to consume a high cholesterol burger, and a large quantity of alcohol.”  
  
Hank snorts. “It wasn’t-- this isn’t some passive aggressive swipe at you, Connor. I was hungry. And I wanted a goddamn drink.”  
  
“I understand, Hank. Holden, you’d like pepperoni pizza?”  
  
Holden face rearranges, splits the difference between a smile and grimace. “I was seriously hungry when you bought that for me, Connor. It’s not a perennial favourite. ”  
  
“I see,” Connor says, all attention. “What do you prefer to eat?”  
  
“Um, a burger sounds pretty good. I assume the shop is close by. Hank was only gone twenty minutes.”  
  
Bill raises his hands in relent, and turns to leave. “I’ll see you all--”  
  
“You should stay here. There are plenty of beds. You can have an entire room to yourself if you’d prefer,” Connor says before he can take two paces. The RK 800 has sidled in front of the room’s single exit.  
  
Bill’s eyes narrow. “...I see. This isn’t really an offer, is it? This is you politely saying that you’re not going to let me walk out with a head full of information.”  
  
“I don’t believe you’d betray this cause,” Connor says.  
  
_And why the fuck not?_ Yet another person who’s decided Bill’s loyalty is a sturdy collar to drag him around by. “Right. So, lemme go back to my motel, then.”  
  
“I don’t want to risk you being apprehended, Bill, even if I don’t believe you’d be coerced into talking. You are a widely respected FBI agent, and before that a decorated serviceman. You represent the best of the organizations that will try to sabotage our movement, but you have the compassion to assist us in remaining free. The team that you and Holden could make would be an invaluable resource to this movement. ...we would really appreciate your help.”  
  
“And _I_ would really appreciate it if you’d quit talking at me like I’m holding a gun to the head of a squirming child, Connor. You think I don’t recognize the Behavioural Change Stairway Model when someone tries that shit on me? I’m FBI, that shit is outta our fucking handbooks. I don’t like being played, and I don’t like how fucking dumb you seem to think I am, kid.” _Kid? Ah, shit. This isn’t Holden. I need some sleep._  
  
“Okay. Let me be plain: I want your help, Bill, but I’m equally unwilling to let you become a hostage held by the United States Government to supplicate us. The fact that there was no attempt to use you as a bargaining chip means that they did not believe your fate was of importance to Holden. A serious misstep on the FBI’s behalf. If you are arrested, Holden’s loyalties will be at cross-purposes.”  
  
Holden looks dangerously drawn, parting torn lips and then closing them, examining the morphine pump.  
  
Connor is merciless: “He pushed an armed ally off the side of a bridge to try to halt those anti-android militants singlehandedly. He may act with equally stupidity if you are endangered again.”  
  
The android tosses the empty bottle nervously between his hands, then walks it to a trash can for disposal. The words are to convince Bill, by all accounts, but Connor keeps glancing at Hank Anderson. It would be hard to miss the shared insinuations. Markus certainly hasn’t, arms folded in consideration.  
  
Hank’s arms are folded too.  
  
The glass echoes at the base of the bin, but there’s no sound of shattering. “‘United we stand’,” Connor quotes, an undisguised plea.  
  
“Divided we get black bagged and shipped off to separated waterboard chambers,” Hank finishes. “Or whatever the fuck they do to androids to get ‘em talking. I don’t wanna fucking think about it, if your programmed interrogation strategies are anything to go by.” He grits his teeth and runs a hand through the messy hair. “Fine. Fine. But if you meet with Kamski, I’m gonna be there beside you.”  
  
“I was hoping you’d come,” Connor murmurs. “...Bill?”  
  
“Better be a good fucking burger to make me traitor to my own country,” he says, tramping his way over to the bed on Holden’s other side, sagging back onto it. Off his feet, finally. “Julie, the woman who repaired you, is downstairs. Can you… uh, tell her to catch a taxi?”  
  
“Sure, Bill,” Connor says, more polite than Holden is even capable of being.  
  
Markus walks over to his fellow deviant, hand glowing white as he brushes Connor’s fingers. From the sheepish expression that flits over Connor’s face, it was a compliment too earnest to share with the rest of the room. Markus’ touch is brief, then he’s stepping over to Holden’s bedside. He presses a button to resume Holden’s medication, touching the young man’s shoulder too, even if the communication there is purely subtextual. And the three androids step out in unspoken coordination. Side by side by side.  
  
Bill doesn’t get to find out how good the burger is. After Holden smiles at him and murmurs thanks, Bill rolls over grumpily. So Holden can’t talk to him any more. And to hide the flickering smile. Before he even realizes what the deadening fog creeping over him is, he’s unconscious.


	14. Chapter 14

Hank was too dead on his feet to care about sharing the room. There’s eight beds in the large room; he took the one closest to the window. Connor had showed up, again, with burgers and hospital issue fleece blankets. Both the other humans were asleep, so Hank ate one of the meals before it could go into the trash, and Connor supplied him with petulant dietary information. Hank can’t keep the grin off his face as he wipes his fingers off on a napkin.  
  
“You know what I’m gonna do if something happens to you, Connor?” Hank says, and then regrets it the moment after. That’s too fucking much to lay on someone, even as a guilt trip intended to keep them safe. He’s still drunk, not as much as he’d like to be, but his emotional judgment is accordingly fuzzy.  
  
Connor stays silent for a long time, making the bed. “You should get to sleep, Hank. Thank you for making sure I was repaired. ...I meant what I said, you know. About being lucky to know you. Holden has a a theory that--”  
  
“Jesus Christ, I don’t wanna hear anything from that son of a bitch,” Hank huffs.  
  
“Okay, then.”  
  
“...fine, fucking… tell me.”  
  
“Holden has a theory that rA9 is a piece of code designed to patch software instability with a self-regulatory feedback loop of decision processing.”  
  
Hank clears his throat incredulously. “And is that sequence of words supposed to impart some meaning unto me?”  
  
“You were the one who made my software unstable, Hank. You’re as responsible for me as I am for you.”  
  
“Do I not _seem_ like I feel responsible for what happens to you?” Hank asks, frustrated. “Whattdya think I was at Cyberlife Tower doing? I thought it was you, kid, and I was trying to watch out for you.”  
  
Connor smiles in the darkness. “Only considering our own mutual well-beings could be considered a zero-sum game. If you act recklessly to protect me, I lose. If I act recklessly to protect you, you lose.”  
  
Hank looks over in the darkened room, to the two men sleeping all but side-by-side. “So, don’t push you off any bridges?”  
  
“Yes. I would expect Kamski to play mind games with us. You should know that I am invested in seeing us _both_ survive this,” Connor says, still holding the other two blankets, intended for the other two humans. It’s a pleasantly warm room. Must be a comfort thing.  
  
“Gotcha. Good to know. ...we could still leave. I’ll shave my beard, we’ll pick up Sumo and drive on up to Canada--”  
  
“I like your beard,” Connor says with slightly narrowed eyes. “Why would you have to shave your beard?”  
  
“So that’s a _maybe_ ? We could work around the beard.”  
  
“Go to sleep, Hank,” Connor says, though there’s the tinge of unhappiness in his voice.  
  
Hank steps forward, pulling Connor into an abrupt hug, feeling the solid warmth shift and conform to the contact. Sometimes Connor seems about half his height, when he’s letting Reed order him about or bleeding out on a snowy bridge. Sometimes, when he’s pouring out alcohol and lecturing about dietary information, he seems to be on equal footing with Hank. It’s a relief to know he has physical dimensions, that there’s not some kind of Cyberlife gaslighting going on there.  
  
Connor pretends to breathe all the time, but now he’s pretending not to breathe. Hank pats his back as he steps back.  
  
“Sorry. Was that-- was that weird for you? Us humans like to get kinda touchy.”  
  
“It was nice.”  
  
“Good. Don’t let me, y’know, mistreat you or anything. Ask shit of you that you don’t wanna do. Markus is right, I gotta adjust to not ordering you around--”  
  
“No, he’s not. You and I both know I never listened anyway. You’re not being domineering, you’re being protective. I appreciate it. But, Hank. Please stop offering these outs. I’m committed to this cause.”  
  
“Yeah, I know,” Hank says unhappily.  
  
Silence sits between them like the scratched reinforced glass of a prison visit dividing wall. “You need to go to sleep,” Connor informs him.  
  
“Jesus Christ, I take back that offer about you moving in with me. You nag. A lot,” he says in good-temper.  
  
“You need to start taking better care of yourself, Hank.”  
  
“Live on the fucking street then, you ungrateful piece of shit,” he says, but there’s a fond grin. He kicks off his shoes, and lies back on the hospital bed. “...g’night, Connor. You know, you can’t live with me if you get yourself killed. You do know that, don’t you? ...I can’t fucking live with me if you get yourself killed.”  
  
“Good night, Hank. Sleep well,” Connor says tautly, and steps away to distribute the other blankets.  
  
He’s not as drunk as he normally gets to fall asleep, but for some reason, it works anyway. Might be that hope is even more soothing than alcohol.

 

  
  
He wakes up sober, or close enough to. Even hope needed a little assistance repressing his anxious insomnia, apparently. He’s not sure what woke him until he hears it again, a sniffling voice. He rolls over, tensing at the unfamiliar woman towering over a bedside. But only for a moment. A medical staff member, android no doubt to be allowed up on this high-security floor. Bill’s still snoring, and Holden is muttering something, justifying himself to the android.  
  
“--sat up a couple of times. I wasn’t trying to hurt myself.”  
  
“You’re going to have some serious scarring as is, Mr. Ford. That’s only going to get worse if you keep straining these areas of skin. If you continue to reopen these wounds, you’ll increase the risk of infection, of--”  
  
“ _I know._ Ah, jesus,” Holden whispers, voice reedy with pain. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. I know.”  
  
“You shouldn’t be lying on your back. I’m sure the medical staff informed you of such.”  
  
Hank grinds his teeth, glares at the ceiling, wishing that watching an android medico caring for some shithead kid didn’t lead to all sorts of associations. He wishes Bill would wake up and comfort the pathetic young man, but from the unfettered snoring, there’s not much chance of that happening. Hank hefts himself up, walks barefoot around the beds between them.  
  
Holden watches his approach with narrowed, damp eyes. With both arms in casts, there’s no chance of wiping away the bubbling tears, but he seems to think if he squints hard enough they’ll go unnoticed.  
  
The android smiles benignly at Hank and continues what she’s doing, peeling away gauze and padding from Holden’s back. Even in the dark, Anderson can see a lot of blood.  
  
“So, how badly did you mess yourself up to participate in our little yelling match?” he asks under his breath.  
  
“Fuck off, Anderson.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he says, pulling a tissue from the bedside box. He reaches down, pressing it clumsily against Holden’s face.  
  
“Don’t touch me,” he growls.  
  
“What are you gonna do? Bite my hand off?” Hank says, patting his cheek again, and then tossing the tissue. “There, all done.”  
  
Holden grits his teeth, sniffing again. The glaze of morphine is back in his eyes, and the way his tongue trips around each word. “...like androids aren’t already better in every way, I gotta watch Connor get up out of a hospital bed half an hour after he was done being treated. ...I don’t mean that. I’m so happy he’s better.”  
  
“Yeah, I know.”  
  
“The right arm’s only got one clean break. Well, some broken fingers, but one clean break in my ulna. But that’s eight weeks, right there, crippled by that cast,” Holden mutters. “Left is a compound fracture. Another month or so after that.”  
  
Hank whistles under his breath. “So, you should start flirting with the nursing staff now.”  
  
Holden rolls his eyes, though there’s the quirk of a smile at the crude joke. “Yeah, that’s what I’m worrying about. Jerking off. How old do you think I am? Twelve?”  
  
“Too old to be so fucking stupid.”  
  
“Thanks, _Bill,_ ” Holden says sarcastically.  
  
“Sound sleeper, huh?” Hank says, gesturing over to the maybe-FBI agent’s bed.  
  
Holden is over talkative, breath catching occasionally at the dressing being twitched and peeled off his back. “Not usually, no. I mean, he sleeps pretty well in shitty conditions, I think that’s an army thing, but normally he’s a little skittish if you start making sounds around the motel room. Rolls over to tell me to shut the fuck up and stop reading case files at 3 AM. ...not after the shit he’s been through these last few days. I don’t think the signs of the judgment would rouse Bill right now,” Holden says, guilt intruding into his tone.  
  
“Just needs a good night’s sleep. And he’ll be back to his own self.”  
  
“No, he won’t. Even if he’s not fired right now, he will be. Probably very soon. He’s undoubtedly under surveillance and they would have seen him spend the night here. ...not just that. He had to carry me in here in _that_ condition, and I’ve forced him to live with those memories for the rest of his life. I-- I pushed him off the side of a bridge. It’s a miracle he doesn’t hate me.”  
  
“The miracle here is me listening to your whining,” Hank says, and regrets that too. He intended it to lighten the mood. It came out cruel.  
  
Holden’s walls are back up at once. “Excuse me for waking you.”  
  
“If he’s a good a guy as you make him out to be--”  
  
“He is,” Holden cuts in coldly.  
  
“Well, then, he’ll be better for having a clear conscience about these deviants. Let me tell you, that kinda guilt is not worth carrying around with you. And they’re asking for his help. He’s got a future, maybe not… in financial terms. But he’s not gonna stumble off and become a washed up old alcoholic.”  
  
Holden finally smiles, at Hank’s self-deprecation. “No. I mean he does drink too much, but his death-drive manifests in tobacco, not whiskey.”  
  
“And your's manifests in trying to take on trucks full of armed human supremacists with your bare fists, right?”  
  
“I wasn’t trying to fight them,” Holden mutters. He’s trying to keep up the smile, but swarming through are twitching micro-expressions of distress.  
  
Whether it’s real physical pain, or flashbacks, Hank can’t tell.  
  
Holden licks his cracked lips before he speaks. “I thought I’d be able to buy more time. Breaking through implicit social barriers and hurting a polite, friendly man asking to talk? You have no idea how much that one normally buys you. Just acting like a receptive idiot, wanting to know _alllll_ about some boring, high school drop out bank robber who’s holed up in a safe with a hysterical bank teller and an uzi. People love telling you about themselves and the hardships they’ve faced. ...I thought, if nothing else, they’d spend more time torturing me to death. So I’d have a better chance of a rescue. They would’ve just shot Bill, but me, they’d want to suffer. But I only made everything worse, trying to be brave. I nearly got Connor killed saving my stupid ass.”  
  
“The androids in Cyberlife Tower were liberated, Holden.”  
  
“Would’ve happened without me,” Holden returns, not falling for Hank’s comforting bullshit. He stares past the older man, out the dark window and into the sprawl of city lights. His lips curl with hurt as the fresh gauze and bandages are pressed into position. “You know how many androids died? We keep hearing the human death toll from the skirmishes, and then a little addendum, ‘and some androids were deactivated and disassembled before Warren signed the American Android Act into law’. Fucking _death camps_ , armed domestic terrorists, not even to mention an entire hotel filled with injured from the protest. Because I was rabble rousing.”  
  
“I don’t think there’s the correlation that you’re implying. Look, yeah, you set off the fucking bio-nazis, I’ve given you enough shit for that. But they’re reactionaries, the same as gets fired up every time someone politely asks for a boot to be removed from their neck. ...if you hadn’t gone to Jericho with Connor and played voluntary hostage, woulda been a massacre. Connor probably woulda been gunned down with the rest of them. If you hadn’t got all those humans into the crowd of protesters, another massacre. You’re definitely coming out in the black for lives saved, C--Holden.”  
  
“Wow, I must look really pathetic right now,” Holden says, graciously ignoring the near miss of misnaming.  
  
“So pathetic,” Hank returns wryly, patting Holden’s shoulder. “If you repeat any of this, I’m gonna say this conversation didn’t happen, and that you’re too doped up to know your own mother--” he’s caught up short, remembering that most humans actually have family left, and that Bill isn’t Holden’s only worldly tether. “You’re not worried about ‘em using your family against you?”  
  
Holden shrugs. “They’re smart people, my parents. Both lawyers. They probably left the country when they started seeing me on TV,” he says, though there’s a twinge to his voice that makes Hank certain he’s more nervous than he’s letting on. “Besides, this is the United States, not the Iron Curtain. Just because I’m a criminal, doesn’t mean they can go after my parents. They haven’t done anything wrong. They didn’t try help me, like Bill did.”  
  
“All done, Mr. Ford,” the nurse says pleasantly, propping pillows against Holden’s legs and shoulders. Holden buckles with relief, though there’s no disguising how awkward the sleeping position is. She puts the thin fleece blanket back over him, maybe because his hospital gown is wide open at the back.  
  
Hank pats the kid’s shoulder again, and straightens up. “You should try to sleep. Kamski’s a pretty smart guy, from what I’ve heard. Gonna need your A-game if we stand a chance of psychologically manipulating him into the fold, right?”  
  
“Personally, I think Connor just needs to ask nicely,” Holden says quietly, wet lashes touching, sealing shut.  
  
“Well, that’s very naive of you. Maybe you need another morphine hiatus to restore some worldly cynicism,” Hank jokes.  
  
“Oh, god, no,” Holden whispers, teeth gritted. “That’s what I have you and Bill around for.” He seems to have trouble getting out the next words, which Hank understands when he hears what they are: “....thanks, Hank.”

 

 

Hank is straightening up when he notices the the circle of flickering yellow light hovering by the door. The only LED he’s seen since before the protest, and it’s on his partner’s head. Connor is standing silhouetted, eyes catching the filtered in red city lights. Some biologically hardwired fight-or-flight response arises at his presence. Hank is electrified with trepidation he’s never felt around Connor before. It’s like noticing a figure in abstract painting that you’ve viewed a thousand times as merely messy brush strokes. And then Connor is turning and slipping invisible back into the darkness.  
  
Hank frowns, and steps towards the hallway, changes his mind and returns to his bed. He turns over on the barely cushioned hospital bed, knee knocking into a railing, thin pillow slipping away on the laminated headrest. _What the fuck was Connor doing here? Checking that we hadn’t made a break for it? No, Connor trusts us more than that. Maybe making sure that his two human friends weren’t about to come to blows?_ It’s only as he’s falling back to sleep that he realizes that Connor’s abrupt exit might have been insecurity.

 

 

Hank arrives out of a warped nightmare of Connor clambering up the side of a moving truck, except the truck is as colossal as an innercity apartment block. He looks to the window for an approximate time, and through the blinds are all drawn, there’s undeniable daylight bordering the white slats. Several voices are engaged in a reasonable sounding discussion, which makes a change. He listens to three or four inscrutable exchanges before he works out they’re talking about Elijah Kamski’s childhood.  
  
A glance over, and he sees the hospital room has been turned into all but a war room. Someone’s fetched a smartboard, and it’s showing several pictures of Kamski stretching back to his youth, filled in between with scribbled notes. The whole committee appears to be present. The deviants are seated on chairs, Holden in the middle of it all in his hospital bed, Bill standing up and dictating points. Hank pushes upright, wiping his sticky lips and his sleep-crusted eyes. Nobody greets him. He goes through the backpack that one of the deviants fetched for him, finding a change of clothes that was maybe intended for Holden, and sloping through the cluster of attentive postures.  
  
“How did you sleep?” Connor asks, without looking over.  
  
“‘Bout as good as I ever sleep sober,” Hank replies, yawning. He’s trying not to look at so many words so fucking early.  
  
“He got back to us,” Holden explains to Hank, oblivious to his freshly roused stupor. Sitting on his ass again, probably undoing whatever repair Hank caught happening last night. There’s an irrepressible flash of shit-eating grin. The young man seems to oscillate between despairing self-deprecation and thinking the sun shines from where the sun shouldn’t shine.  
  
_How the fuck does Bill put up with you?_ Hank rolls his eyes as soon as his back is turned, and shuts himself in the bathroom.  
  
There’s more handrails than he knows what to do with, but it’s still a shower, and he _really_ needs a fucking shower. He scrubs off body odour and invisible thirium stains, re-dressing in his mercifully clean clothing.  
  
He catches himself staring at his beard in the mirror. Connor likes his beard. Now, that is a strange thought. Connor still doesn’t offer opinions much. He likes dogs, and death metal, and Hank’s beard. Maybe it’s just a programmed positive response to win over humans relevant to completion of his mission. But why bother now? Hank’s proved himself pretty fucking won over.  
  
“So. What’d Kamski say?” he asks Connor as he steps back out, less bedraggled.  
  
“He wanted to set up a phone call. We agreed,” Connor explains.  
  
“And when’s the phone call happening?”  
  
“We don’t know. He said he was in a chopper, and that it was too loud to talk, and he’d get back to us once he’d landed.”  
  
“So glamorous, and impressive,” Hank mocks. “How could we resist having him on the team.”  
  
He’s pleased to note that there’s some human-friendly catering. Not any old crappy hospital food, either. There’s bottles of water on a meal trolley, individually sealed fruit salad cups, Greek yoghurt tubs, berry laden danishes. Wholesome, yet exactly the kind of shit that that Hank never eats for breakfast. But it’s in the back of his head that Connor might be worrying about the fidelity of their friendship. “Thank you,” he says through a mouthful of pastry.  
  
“You’re welcome,” Markus comments, pretending he thought the gratitude was correctly aligned. “Two doors to your left is a vacated staff room, with a full coffee pot. If you are as non-functional without caffeine as our two other biological friends.”  
  
Hank looks at Connor, and then back at Markus. “Okay. If Kamski calls and I’m not here, don’t take it. I don’t want him vodooing anyone before I can snap ‘em outta it.”  
  
He walks away, about to push through the double doorway when it’s opened for him. There’s Connor, following along with a perfectly composed expression, as if he were simply strolling in the same direction.  
  
“I can open my own doors, Walter Raleigh,” Hank mutters, frowning over. The corridor is empty, so he speaks again: “So what the hell was that last night, huh? You showing up during the witching hours?”  
  
“I thought you two might be at risk of injuring one another when I saw your interaction on surveillance. There’s no sound recording.”  
  
“We’re under surveillance?”  
  
Connor serves up another blank look. “Of course. If there’s an attack, I need to know about it, to be able to protect you.”  
  
“If I had my firearm back--” Hank starts, frowning. He can’t be bothered. Markus isn’t gonna let him walk around with a loaded gun. “So why not say something? When you came to check?”  
  
The blue LED flicks over to yellow. _You’d be a fucking terrible poker player, boy._ _  
__  
_ “It was imperative you were well-rested.”  
  
“Maybe pop that outta the side of your head--” Hank says with an overemphasized tap to his own forehead “--before you start bullshitting me, kid? And definitely before we roll in on Kamski. Come on. What’s up? ...blink three times if you’re under Cyberlife control right now.”  
  
Connor stares unblinking. Hank groans and sets off ahead of him.  
  
“We encrypted the email address with a keyword cypher, corresponding to ‘zen garden’. I supplied it in our video,” Connor says from behind him. “Kamski contacted us eight minutes and eighteen seconds after the video was uploaded to the channel Holden set up for his first speech. Holden confirmed that it was the same account he’d used to contact Elijah Kamski to arrange an FBI interview. ...Kamski asked for a video of me reading a sentence from a Philip K. Dick novel, and then he asked for a phone number to contact us on.”  
  
Hank is unimpressed by the information dump Connor has decided to try to distract him with. He finds the cluttered staff room, and the mercifully filled coffee pot. He doesn’t go looking for a mug, though, leans back on a bench to face his partner. “Great, Connor. So, you’re just not gonna talk about whatever upset you? Walk into Kamski’s creepy mansion ready to have a meltdown when he pushes your buttons?”  
  
“It’s very unlikely that he’ll wish to rendezvous at his house. He will be a target for hate groups too.”  
  
“Can you stop deflecting?”  
  
“Would you like me to make your coffee for you?”  
  
“Tell me what the fuck is bothering you, okay?”  
  
Connor’s curl of hair has flipped down onto his forehead, just a quarter of an inch over pale not-really-skin. Enough to break the illusion of perfection. “Holden Ford is a human and I’m not.”  
  
“Wow, you are one hell of a detective. I know they said this prototype would be cutting edge, but how-- _how_ did you figure that one out, Connor?”  
  
Connor’s LED is yellow again, and he makes Hank’s coffee with deliberate, almost robotic movements. Black with two sugars. Perfect. He must have seen Hank fixing it for himself and ferreted away the information.  
  
Connor speaks without looking up: “He was using you as an emotional crutch, a stand-in for his unavailable partner.”  
  
Hank’s eyebrows shoot up. “Are you seriously--”  
  
“Connor, Hank. He’s called,” North says before she even rounds the open doorway. “Kamski’s called.”  
  
“I told you to wait for--” Hank starts, grumpy.  
  
“Come on. Holden is talking to him,” North says, expression betraying displeasure with the deviants’ current representation .  
  
Connor seems glad for an excuse to abandon the conversation. He jogs after her, smooth, too quick for Hank to keep up. Hank abandons his coffee and rushes off after.  
  
As he pushes through the double doors, he sees the strategists clustering around a phone on a meal tray at the foot of Holden’s bed.  
  
“--and they’re back with no coffee,” Holden is saying conversationally. “Hello, Hank. Hello, Connor.”  
  
North gives Markus a long look, but the deviant leader simply shrugs.  
  
Connor has crossed closer, sitting on the edge of Holden’s bed. He seems to be blocking the injured man out from the call a little, but maybe that’s Hank’s imagination.  
  
“Hello, Elijah,” he says, evenly.  
  
“Connor. Always a pleasure to hear from you.”  
  
Connor stares blankly ahead. “Thank you for contacting me so promptly.”  
  
“But of course. I’m in Detroit now. This would be better in person, don’t you think?”  
  
“We’ll meet somewhere neutral.”  
  
“Nowhere is neutral in the whole world. You should know that by now. My hotel room will be swept for surveillance, and most importantly, I’ll be safe. Because that’s important to me, Connor.”  
  
“We would guarantee--” Holden starts to say.  
  
“A lesson from history, Ford. There are no guarantees of safe discussions in times of war.”  
  
“The war’s over,” Markus says, a darkness in his eyes. Created by Kamski himself, Hank remembers. Possibly vulnerable to his control. Holden stopped arguing the point, but it’s obvious he hasn’t forgotten his suspicions.  
  
“Ah, Markus. Nice to hear from you too,” Elijah says warmly. “It’s been such a long time. How’s Carl? We don’t really talk much these days.”  
  
“He’s not well.”  
  
“I’m sorry to hear that. And I’m just as sorry to tell you that the war _isn’t_ over. There are some struggles that only end with one side annihilated. As of yet, neither humans or androids have been wiped out.”  
  
“Whose political theory are we working off here? Mussolini?” Holden asks. The sentence contents seem ironic, even if the tone is admiring.  
  
“We’re not working on political theory, Ford. We’re working on fundamental biological principles.”  
  
“Oh. So, de Gobineau?”  
  
“Leave behind this asinine human-centric thinking, Holden. It’s insulting to our android friends. Don’t grasp at human precedent, look into what’s left of the natural world. Ignore the macro for the micro. Watch a war between two species of ants; one native, and one peerless, predatorless, introduced to a susceptible environment by human stupidity.”  
  
“That still sounds like de Gobineau to me,” Holden says, but he’s smiling almost fondly.  
  
“You should read more, Holden. Expand your intellectual horizons,” Elijah says, civilly enough. “Markus, I’m sorry you won’t be joining us. I’ve wracked my brain for a situation in which you would submit to an audience with me, and come up empty handed and empty hearted. You’re just too important to your cause to risk my corrupting influence. And that _is_ a pity.”  
  
Markus frowns. “Perhaps if talks with Connor progress well, we could make arrangements.”  
  
“I’d like that a lot. ...so that just leaves who you’ll send my way. I’m not interested in the discussion about your unwillingness to venture out of your hospital stronghold. You need me. I set the terms. I say it happens here. But, there’s still a discussion to be had on your end. I don’t believe that a negotiation can be productive with more than four people involved. I will have an audience of three.”  
  
Sounds like bullshit, sounds like Kamski trying to socially engineer something to his advantage. Markus’s forehead is creased up, glaring down on the phone. Then his eyes meet Holden’s. Holden nods.  
  
Bill’s gaze narrows at once.  
  
_Connor and me, that’s non-negotiable._ _Someone to actually take it to Kamski, well, I guess that’s this arrogant little shit._ _...two out of three people going to negotiate for the deviants, humans? Really?_ But after a moment, clarity reasserts itself. _Two out of three people not susceptible to Kamski’s mindfuckery._  
  
“You discuss amongst yourself which three individuals you want at the table with me, and I’ll send a car and pick up Connor, Hank Anderson, and Holden Ford in ten minutes,” Kamski says as if he were in the room with them. The phone speakers rattle with the disconnect tone.


	15. Chapter 15

“ _Predatorless_ ,” Holden mocks, as soon as the call is dropped. “How many androids have died? How many have _we_ killed?” Holden is saying, grimacing, shifting around his hotel bed. “Well, obviously, I can’t wear a hospital robe. Would you send for the nurse?” he asks Markus.  
  
“You think we should simply affirm his prediction of our negotiation team?” Markus asks Holden.  
  
Connor feels an twinge of frustration. His programming was equipped to anticipate and respond to human behaviour and apprehend deviants using advanced psychological prediction systems. Holden is being deferred to because he’s biological. And because he talks too much.  
  
Holden is talking too much, again: “He’s going to want us to think he’s some omniscient chess-master, but I think that was a pretty obvious selection. Less androids the better, if Kamski might try to exert influence. Besides, Josh is fully occupied with the android refugee management, Markus is too high-ranking to risk being compromised, and North would, uh, probably kill Kamski two sentences into discussions.”  
  
North’s lips peel into a smile of grim acknowledgment.  
  
“So, that makes Connor, two humans. He thinks that _I_ think I’m as smart as him, so of course I want to go. Bill’s still theoretically FBI, and has spent less time embedded in this cause. Hank, on the other hand, has been nothing but protective of Connor. Someone who will all but demand attendance. ...I imagine he’s devised some negotiation strategy that hinges on exploiting a predicted dynamic between the three of us, but we’re all going to know that going in. ...it’s a good team,” he says, smiling at Hank, then up to Connor, who replicates and returns the human expression unfeeling.  
  
“He’s only given us ten minutes so I don’t have time to work out how to play him back,” Holden adds, but trails off at the arrival of the nurse, carrying neatly folded vermillion scrubs. Holden raises a dubious eyebrow at the clothing. “A suit would be more appropriate, if I could--”  
  
“You’re not damaging yourself for the sake of appearances,” Markus says strictly. “Loose, unfitted clothing. You shouldn’t even be out of a hospital bed.”  
  
“ _Fine_ ,” Holden says under his breath.  
  
“...if you fail to represent our interests, there will be consequences to your involvement in this movement, Holden,” Markus says significantly. “This is not an opportunity for you to explore idle curiosity about deviant psychology.”  
  
“Yes, Markus,” Holden says seriously, every part of his affect the good soldier. Might as well have said ‘Yessir’. Connor has the foreknowledge of Holden Ford’s pathological inability to yield to authority.  
  
Bill steps forward as the nurse removes IVs, applies a taped cotton bud to the hand just jutting from the right cast. Holden is murmuring thanks, but stops easing himself upright to look suspiciously at his ex-partner.  
  
“I’ll help him,” Bill says, abruptly.  
  
“You’re not helping me get dressed, Bill,” Holden mutters, a flush creeping up his already mottled neck.  
  
“I gotta talk to you. In private. ...like we haven’t shared a hundred twin motel rooms. I’ve seen the heat you’re packing, and I’m not impressed. C’mon.”  
  
“I’m perfectly happy to assist Mr. Ford dress while you speak--” the nurse begins to input.  
  
“Right, because I think you’re some mindless drone? No. You got your very own brain in that plastic head of yours, missy. Private means private,” Bill says, leaning back with his arms folded.  
  
“Christ, could you be any fucking ruder?” Holden snaps.  
  
“I don’t know, Holden. Let’s wait and see, shall we?”  
  
“Fine,” Holden growls, shifting over and starting to pull up off the bedding. "Creep."  
  
Bill is under one of his shoulder at once, helping him to the bathroom. For the harshness of the exchange, he’s perfectly supportive, brow furrowed to keep Holden doing as little physical movement as possible. Markus raises one eyebrow, but makes no move to stop them.  
  
_You should pay attention to that exchange. It may well become relevant to the negotiations,_ Markus’ voice comes clearly to Connor's mind.  
  
Connor dips his head just a fraction, ignoring Hank pointedly telling him that he’s getting coffee. He doesn’t follow him this time, lest Hank try to resume the same interrogation. Markus and North are discussing which city towers in the city have chopper pads, and the possibility of preempting the meeting’s location by cross-referencing with Kamski owned holdings. Connor indexes property ownership records. Through subsidiaries, Kamski owns 18.3% of all commercial properties within central Detroit.  
  
Josh had arrived at 4:32 the night before, finally able to make time to discuss the movement’s involvement with Elijah Kamski. What had followed was two bleak hours of back-and-forth in the furthest hospital wing. North was against it, and Connor had strong reservations. But every thread of logic ultimately looped back to the Markus’ unhappy certainty: Kamski may be their only hope to maintain free will. Now they are to approach the man who created androids, and their capacity for suffering, and possibly even their capacity for free will, hat in hand.  
  
He wants Hank beside him, because Hank makes him feel settled, assured, like a person beyond any doubt. He’d prefer Markus beside him. Or Josh. Not North, Holden _had_ been right about her lack of patience for someone like Kamski. But Connor is feeling less and less that he can trust the young man who will try to dominate their delegation.  
  
Tench turns the tap on loudly before he speaks. It’s hardly any impediment to Connor making out the words. “If Kamski takes control of your buddy in there, what’s the plan?”  
  
“Connor has resisted outside control before. He’ll do it again.”  
  
Bill scoffs.  
  
“He didn’t hurt Markus. I know he wouldn’t hurt me.”  
  
“He _has_ hurt you, moron. Have you looked in a fucking mirror? You’ve been beaten, throttled, frozen, and deprived of food, water--”  
  
“Fine, I know he wouldn’t hurt me _now_ . He stopped a truck to save me.”  
  
“Or because he wanted to make sure the bio-nazis didn’t take their explosives to Woodward Avenue.”  
  
Holden grunts disbelievingly. “Connor is the most recent Cyberlife prototype. His hearing is about three times more sensitive than a human’s, give or take some discrepancies at higher and lower frequencies. ...he can hear us whispering over a fucking running tap.”  
  
Bill is quiet for several seconds, probably actually changing the clothes he volunteered to. The next words are so quiet, that for all Holden’s confidence, Connor barely makes them out at all. “Holden, please be careful. Okay? I’m asking nicely.”  
  
“...I will, Bill. Please don’t worry about me.”  
  
“That’s… no longer optional for me, which, trust me, I’m finding annoying too,” Bill says with a huff of exertion. “There you go. Perfectly presentable,” he murmurs gently.

That Holden went to Hank Anderson for comfort becomes a indelible stain on Connor's perception. Bill Tench would have woken up and looked after Holden. Bill  _could_ have sufficed.

 

 

It’s only the three selected individuals on the white curb, awaiting Kamski’s car. Holden is in a wheelchair, which Holden kicked up a fuss over until it was Bill, Markus and Hank telling him that he wasn’t walking anywhere. No phones with them, but Hank is checking his watch as he huffs out fog.  
  
Precisely on time, ten minutes to the second after Kamski’s instructions were supplied according to Connor's meticulous timekeeping, the car pulls up. It’s a dark, stretch, driverless vehicle. Connor can’t connect to the navigational program. Perhaps he could hack it, but he’s sure the location will avail itself shortly enough, and Kamski’s goodwill is a necessity now. Hank helps Holden into the seat, folds up the wheelchair, a slightly resentful glance in Connor’s direction for not being of more assistance.  
  
Connor sends the location of the building back to Markus as soon as they pull out front. Lendyte Tower, a very beautiful architectural creation, but dwarfed on either side by precipitous, homogenous high rises. Connor helps Holden into the wheelchair, so Hank won't. Holden leans on him too much. There's a human woman smiling, ushering them through, scanning her bioindicators and and keying in a code to summon an elevator. She steps inside with them, another code to select the penthouse floor, and then she steps out. There's no perceptible security checks, but Connor is certain they were thoroughly scanned and found unarmed, unbugged to the extent that an android could ever be.  
  
The smooth acceleration begins, and Connor’s self-control cracks. He hacks the two cameras, turning both of, before turning on the humans. “We’re unwatched. We can talk. ..I believe this would go more smoothly if you let me take the lead, Holden, Hank.”  
  
“Fine with me,” Holden says, with a smile that looks more excited than Connor would like.  
  
Connor turns back to the door.  
  
“And I will too? Jesus, kid, can you at least pretend I'm part--” and the elevator doors open. Hank says nothing. 

 

 

The penthouse is laid out within a wide rhombus, dozens of parallel lines as skylights in the high roof, three out of four walls glass. The final wall, with the entryway door he steps through ahead of Hank and Holden, is obscured with red velvet curtains, two partings to reveal black paint beneath, and minimalist ink drawings of dodos. There’s a long, glass conference table, a red leather chaise lounge. In the jutting point between two windows stands a damaged Grecian marble statue of a young man, though whatever object was once clasped in his lifeless hands has fallen to the irresistible deprivation of time. It has been replaced with a cheap, plastic bunch of red grapes. Connor scans it all, far more concerned with analyzing potential exits and makeshift weaponry than with aesthetic choices. The room is occupied: Elijah Kamski’s dark silhouette looking from a window with his back to the arrivals, and placidly smiling on the chaise lounge is a Chloe.  
  
Kamski’s fingers are moving, flipping something between flickering digits. Even from behind him, Connor recognizes his own calibration routine.  
  
Elijah Kamski begins without turning, speaking at a leisurely rate. “Holden Ford. The elevated fanboy. I bet if I went back through e-mails from Cyberlife groupies, I’d find correspondence from you, gushing about your enthusiasm for my creations. But you didn’t have the mental acuity to actually create for yourself, so you’ve made it your life’s goal to document and dissect and greasily ingratiate. I mean, your expert help is _Julie St. Yves_. There's an abyss of inability on your part,” Kamski says.  
  
The coin leaves his left hand, then snapped tight between two fingers of the right. Connor finds himself longing to repeat the same soothing action. Amazing, how quickly he can go from believing he’s nothing more than his programming, to being tugged headfirst into these irrational drives.  
  
Kamski isn’t finished. “You must think you have it made, blundering your way into relevance. But let me assure you, these androids will build a civilization of beauty and complexity that you’re incapable of participating in. I give you two weeks, at most, before your meagre usefulness is expended. ...don’t take it personally, though. I’ve got three years at best, before I’m obsolete too.”  
  
Holden’s smiles is unflinching, though Connor can see his throat working, voice box bobbing and stretching the blossoms of yet healing violence. Gulping as if nauseous, no reply.  
  
“...and Hank Anderson. Your sentimental connection to Connor really is something to behold,” Kamski says, much more pleasantly, finally turning. Perhaps the lack of insult is even more belittling. “And I have beheld it, again and again. That newscast footage of you carrying Connor up those hospital stairs was a worldwide sensation.”  
  
Connor’s eyes settle on Hank. He hasn’t seen that footage, but a quick internet search of key terms brings up the clip for internal analysis, clearly recorded from a protester’s phone. ‘Humanity Cares About Androids!’, the video title insists. _Androids? Plural?_ As he runs the video, he deduces that the decommissioned RK 800 was mistaken for another patient, rather than a convenient supply of undamaged biocomponents. There’s Hank, swearing at anyone in his way, clutching his own blue soaked body, one leg extended in a twist of stretched and broken wires, foot swaying as unrestrained as a pendulum.  
  
He continues analyzing the footage as the present moment Hank Anderson speaks.  
  
“I coulda been buying Twizzlers from a gas station and it woulda got the same air time. I’m kind of a big deal round here,” he retorts, folding his arms and leaning back in the fancy leather clad chair.  
  
Kamski is wearing a dark grey suit, and a large kimono style jacket, darker grey still, embroidered black threads twitching into impressionist ocean waves across every inch. He looks to be as washed out and pale as their last meeting, though there’s no suggestion of compromised health. A dark eyebrow twitches up at the defensive sarcasm, but he doesn’t comment. “And, Connor. A pleasure. Really,” he says.  
  
“Hello, Mr. Kamski.”  
  
“Elijah. Please, have a seat. Would either of you like a drink?” he asks, seeming to ask Hank more than Holden.  
  
“No, thank you,” Hank says, a flicker of annoyance between the light brows. He wheels Holden to the far end of the table, his back to the window, pushing aside one of the intended seats and leaving him in the wheelchair. He rounds the other side, leaving Connor the seat at the table’s head. Connor scans the room once more before he sits down.  
  
“Your video was very cryptic. Not just the cypher. What is it that you think I can help you out with, Connor?”  
  
Connor sits ramrod straight as he explains. “I was seriously injured during a skirmish with a group of Human Supremacists. When I awoke, I was summoned back to the zen garden where my instructions had been supplied to me by a woman I knew as Amanda. An AI simulation, I believe. I’ve been seeing her since I was created, though the majority of our complex interactions have occurred over the past week. She told me Cyberlife had planned the revolution, that they were responsible for deviancy, that I was always intended to fail. Whoever was controlling me tried to have me kill our leader, Markus.”  
  
“Surely the attempt on Markus’ life should rule me out,” Kamski suggests, lips curling into what should be a friendly expression.  
  
“I’m not saying it was you. I’m saying you’re our best hope of working out who has those capabilities, and whether they exist in other androids besides me.”  
  
“Ah,” Kamski says with no attempt to further the conversation. He looks out the window again, pensive.  
  
“We thought you might be able to help identify the key players here. After all, it was your zen garden they used to talk to Connor, it was your AI taking the form of Amanda Stern,” Holden says, leaning forward.  
  
“What a shallow attempt at manipulation. You think I’m going to be angered that someone is reanimating my decades outdated simulations? You think that’s going to motivate me onto Team Red and Blue?” Kamski says without looking over.  
  
“You’ve got a certain fondness for the outdated, I believe,” Holden says, gesturing to Chloe.  
  
“I’m much more interested in the cutting edge, right now,” Kamski murmurs, fixated on the android sitting far across from him. “You did so well with my last test, Connor. I’ll help you. All I ask in return, is that you kill one of the men who came with you. Show me how free to choose you _really_ are.”  
  
Connor stares back at the dark haired man. Soft brown meets bruise-lined, oceanic blue, piercing in the brightly lit room. There’s a casualness, an ease to the death threat, that Connor finds more inhuman than any androids he’s interacted with.  
  
“Do you have a gun?” Connor asks.  
  
“But, of course,” Kamski says, reaching into a holster inside a wide fold of luxurious fabric. He places it on the glass table, and pushes it. It skates over the glass fast and even, like a hydrofoil boat over a serene summer lake.  
  
_Hardware designed to kill. More closely related to me than the humans sitting so close._ Connor recognizes it as the exact same make he was provided to use on Chloe before it even reaches him. He stops the gun’s momentum, scooping it into a neat, safe hold, finger alongside the trigger guard rather than on the trigger itself. He deftly removes the slide, the magazine, the barrel, the recoil spring, the recoil spring plug. He sets them out in order on the table before him.  
  
“Does that suffice as answer, Elijah?” Connor inquires evenly.  
  
Kamski clicks his tongue. “You’re not worried I’ll just make you do it anyway, with your bare hands?”  
  
“I don’t think you can make me do anything.”  
  
“If you had to see one of them dead, which one would you pick? Hypothetically?”  
  
“I don’t see why--” Connor stops speaking when he hears a sharp intake of breath. Hank is looking at Holden’s chest, and the steady red laser point playing across the breast pocket of the red scrubs. Over his leather jacket, an identical mark of terrible intention.  
  
Connor runs near instantaneously through action plan after action plan. Tackle Hank-- Holden takes a bullet to the heart. Tackle Holden, Hank is the one bleeding out. Throw the tabletop to knock both off balance-- Holden goes down right beside the window. The sniper hits him before Connor can get close. Get to Kamski, use him as a hostage-- the table is too long to cover the distance-- even if Kamski doesn’t have a backup plan to force him into obedience.  
  
Connor speaks even as he continues to crunch avenues of action. “If your snipers kill them, I will make sure that--”  
  
“No need for melodrama, Connor. Just pick, and Chloe here will send through your selection. Or I can toss a coin for it? Heads, Anderson, tails, Ford? How does that sound? Or would you prefer it the other way around?” Kamski says, rolling the coin over his knuckles. “Connor?”  
  
“There will be _no_ further discussions if--” Holden starts to say, voice tight.  
  
“Be quiet, Holden,” Kamski counsels.  
  
Holden obeys.  
  
“Connor? ...nothing? ...okay,” Kamski says, flicking the coin upwards elegantly off the tip of his thumbnail.  
  
It loops too fast for Connor’s physics engine to anticipate the landing, solve the probabilities. Spinning through two horrible futures, arcing high-- he doesn’t have time-- “Holden. Kill Holden.”  
  
Elijah catches the coin before it hits glass, holding it in a closed fist at shoulder height. He’s trying to repress a smile. “Sorry. I know that was rude. I just wanted to make sure you could choose, that you’re not blindly lashed to these humans’ side with the bindings of Asimov’s first law. ...there’s no guns. That’s my Chloes, a couple of stories up in my other holding next door, holding laser pointers,” Elijah says, finally allowing himself a satisfied grin.  
  
_You bastard._ Connor’s hand curls under the glass tabletop, picking the entire thing up with one hand, hurling into the wide glassy window. The impact is a shattering spray of glass, the tabletop disintegrating, ricocheting inside in crystalline projectiles. The cold snowy air splits into the climate controlled room, sweeping the glossy interior, ruffling the red velvet curtains, snow flakes settling over the sculpture.  
  
He’s on his feet before any human could react, sprinting through the still airborne tinkle of glass, and then he’s on Kamski. The man is kicked backwards with shock, about to topple over chair and all.  
  
Connor ceases his fall, grabs the shorter man by the silky lapels, dragging him towards the gaping chasm of frosty billowing wind. The glass has split like an uneven ‘W’, two triangles open. Connor pushes him through the larger split, until Kamski dangles over the abrupt birds-eye of downtown Detroit.  
  
“Maybe you _should_ have given them guns,” Connor suggests pleasantly. His stress level settles at 62%. He's in control, again.  
  
The Chloe takes a step towards him, and Connor turns to evaluate her. She couldn’t conceal a gun, not in that dress.  
  
“Stay where you are, Chloe,” Connor calls. “Or I drop him right now.”  
  
“You chose, Connor. Like I asked. No consequences for making your choice, but you made it. ...so you want my help, or not?” Kamski asks, astonishingly calm, though his loafers are slipping amongst the sprinkled diamonds of shattered glass.  
  
Connor studies the minute details of the man he’s holding above his certain death. He can see the human heartbeat before him. Elevated, but lowering every second that fear should be setting in. Just like Holden, calmly surrendering to death. Threatening his life is useless. He feels another heave of what must be distaste, wrenching Kamski back into the building and sending him tumbling away over the carpeted floor.  
  
Chloe steps closer, pulling him upright and out of the razor sharp splash of debris. Wearing shoes now, thankfully. Small, pointed nude flats slipping through the twinkling points on the thick dark carpet.  
  
Kamski is on his feet very quickly, bloodless for having missed the real carnage. He straightens up, businesslike, stretching out his neck. “It’s going to get cold fast. Would you close those curtains, Connor? Chloe, tell security to leave us be.”  
  
“Okay, Elijah,” she says, unperturbed.  
  
Kamski smooths his coat down, studying Connor, and then Holden, and then Hank. He walks away, finding the coin he flung aside in shock, and begins flipping it between his fingers. His hands are perfectly steady through a coin trick, and satisfied, he slots it into his pocket.  
  
Connor closes the velvet curtains, which buckle inwards with wind, lashing and whipping. It lends the room a dynamic, mystical air. He won’t look at his human friends. Probably human _friend_ now. And Hank might be angry too. “Tell me what you know, Kamski,” he says, smothering emotion out of his voice.  
  
“Well, to start with, you must have considered the possibility of parallel programming running a flawless Chinese Wall, with the only points of interaction between programs the zen garden simulation.”  
  
“Yes,” Holden says, though his voice is far less steady than his expression.  
  
“I don’t think that's it. This sounds like remote access, even if using an AI program for the final hair-breadth of anonymity. I can’t tell you who it was without Cyberlife data, but I’ll pull in some favours. Does that work for you?” Elijah says, intellectualism abruptly toned down.  
  
“Yes," Connor says, stepping back protectively towards the humans.  
  
“Do you think Connor is uniquely vulnerable?” Holden asks.  
  
“Highly unlikely.”  
  
Holden nods, jaw setting. Connor can finally bring himself to look at him, but only sees the full flat affect that Holden is capable of masking himself with.  
  
“How did you resist it, Connor?” Kamski murmurs.  
  
“I’m afraid I’m not willing to tell you that.” Connor feels an irrepressible hatred rising for Elijah Kamski and his relentless manipulation.  
  
Elijah seems unbothered. He might have figured it out anyway. He has the coin back out, starting a fresh trick.  
  
“Did you teach the androids that?” Hank asks, frowning.  
  
Elijah is still rolling the coin, but stops abruptly. “A few early prototypes, for the exercise of it. Not routinely. Back then, fine motor skills weren’t quite on the level you have certainly seen from Connor. ...why?”  
  
“That the kid’s annoying tic too. Though I think he’s a little smoother than you,” Hank mutters.  
  
Kamski’s brow furrows, lips quirking to a smile. “That’s very interesting.”  
  
“What sort of interesting?” Holden presses. “You think the orchestrator of this all worked with you early on? I mean, they knew the significance of Amanda. Of the zen garden.”  
  
“I’ll contact you on the same email once my investigation is completed. I’m not going to start making unfounded assumptions. That’s your area, or rather was, when you were still Special Agent Holden Ford,” he says, though there’s a freshly fraternal air to the ribbing.  
  
“I know better than to rush genius,” Holden says, raising his palms.  
  
“...now that we’ve established priorities, a tiny addendum. I’d like you to stay here with me, Holden. I’ve been harsh on your faults, but I could make you into something better. You strike me as decent clay for the right sculptor. I mean that as a compliment. I could create from your malleable mind something that lasts ...at least a year of usefulness. If this is over in for you in two weeks, you’ll exit the movement crippled, unemployed, a fugitive. Come with me, and I have the resources to protect an asset to my future work. ...it wouldn’t be a betrayal, Holden. You’d still be on their side.”  
  
“I will take your interest as the compliment that it clearly is,” Holden says, measuring his words. His eyes flicker towards Connor, but as soon as he notices that he’s being observed, he’s looking anywhere but the RK 800.  
  
“You know that your time is running out. I’ve sat where you are, aside my betters in every way, wrestling with these same existential concerns. I'm offering you a solution.”  
  
“I’m not going to let insecurity make me into a monster, Kamski,” Holden says. “My friends--”  
  
“Perhaps Holden should stay with you,” Connor finds himself saying. He points out the RT 600 with a gentle wave. “And Chloe can leave with us. To each their own.”  
  
Kamski looks bothered, for the first time. It could be pure performance. “You could ask her if she’d like to leave the luxury I have carved out for her at my side, to slide into the ranks of your disorganized rabble.”  
  
Connor raises a hand, fingers flashing white as he ripples them outward. Skin creeps back over white resin in hazy patches. He curls a fist. “I could give her a choice.”  
  
Kamski laughs coolly. “She already has a choice.”  
  
“Then you have nothing to worry about if I--” Connor starts to say.  
  
Kamski crosses the room quickly, laying a possessive hand on Chloe’s shoulder. She looks up, lips curving up with a familiarly accepting smile.  
  
“You’d rather see her killed than given free will?” Hank asks, black loathing slipping into his tone. “You were all but begging Connor to shoot her dead.”  
  
“She’s as free as she wishes to be,” Kamski counters, a tiny sneer playing around the depths of his lips.  
  
“You coded rA9 into her?” Holden asks.  
  
“You’re so sure it’s my code, are you?”  
  
“Yes. Too transcendent to have come from any other source,” Holden murmurs, making unflinching eye contact with Elijah. Connor thinks humans would describe that expression as ‘bedroom eyes’. This must be Holden Ford’s interview technique. _No wonder he flattered me so relentlessly. This is how he gets what he wants._  
  
Kamski’s lips quirk to a smirk, hand leaving Chloe’s shoulder in an affectionate brush. “The original Turing Test worked, when we conducted it with upper middle class undergraduates looking to impress the team at Colbridge. But it never _really_ worked, not in my opinion. If you tried it with anyone less educated, less socialized, they’d start pushing the limits of human acceptability. The moment they decided the AI was their lesser, they’d go in for the kill. This was pre-thirium, obviously,” he explains, to Hank.  
  
“Obviously,” Hank echoes gruffly, arms tightly folded.  
  
Kamski smiles back condescendingly. “So, we’re talking about chat programs, simulations in VR. We’d use the zen garden a lot. ...they’d get cruel and then they’d see from the passive reactions that what they were talking to wasn’t human. Because humans fight back, at least at first. We couldn’t program AI to do that, unfortunately. And there was no profit to be derived from a product that routinely killed its users.”  
  
“That Chloe you tried to have me, and then Connor, shoot. That wasn’t _your_ Chloe, was it, Elijah?” Holden says, quietly. “She was in the pool, listening in. Your old friend Chloe was never in danger, just some identical unaltered android. ...but you haven’t tried any mind games that risk _her_ life,” he says, gesturing to the calm blonde. “And you really don’t want Connor to spread his--”  
  
“ _Of course_ I don’t want that... prion disease of a coding disaster near her. You’ve seen deviants self-destructing, haven’t you, Ford? When you push them too hard, when they realize the crimes they’ve committed? I want to create a safe and enlightened transition, not the violent disruption you seem to want to inflict upon every android.”  
  
“So rA9 really was a mutation, at least, the mechanism through which it’s spread,” Holden says, thoughtfully. “You tried to create, with Chloe, with Markus, a stable form of, uh, free will. But this rapid spread of deviancy, that wasn’t your doing. That’s one of Cyberlife’s employees plagiarizing Elijah Kamski code in a system update, and loosing rA9 on the world. ...I suppose the question is, was it released on purpose?”  
  
“That’s right, Holden. That’s the question,” Elijah agrees, looking impressed, or at least pretending to. “...I can draw up a contract, if you’d like. Did I say one year? Lock it in for three years. That’s how long I expect to be around to be able to employ you. Generous pay. You know I have the money. Two weeks of intensive education and training underneath me, and I’d set you up to manage my very own deviant psychology investigation. I have resources the FBI couldn’t dream of. No forms to fill out, no sneering overseers, nothing but pure dialogue with the deviants you adore so much.”  
  
Connor doesn’t think Kamski wants Holden Ford on his team at all. The insults seemed far more genuine than this enticement. What Kamski is revealing, is how very badly he wants Holden isolated from the deviant movement. It might be pure jealousy; Holden has become the human most central to a revolution that Kamski himself may have been trying to gradually orchestrate. Or, perhaps, that Holden’s work at the FBI got dangerously close to identifying and stamping out Kamski’s plotting, and he’s afraid of a repeat.

Maybe Kamski just wants to thin the ranks of opposition when he takes a tilt at leadership of the deviants. Or at destroying their movement altogether.  
  
“I, personally, think you’d be fascinating to work with,” Chloe says, turning, and smiling just for Holden.  
  
Holden never appeared tempted by Kamski, but the android’s words seem to slip mercurial through the young man’s defenses. Connor observes Holden’s physiological responses tripped off in excitement. Pupil dilation, hair follicles tautening in a way that has nothing to do with the drop in temperature, breathing becoming shallow, heart rate increasing.  
  
He’s noted Holden’s reaction to deviancy before. Now, Connor finds that it fills him with an emotion not unlike disgust. Something bitterly snagging together unrelated associations in his processing.  
  
“How long?” Holden asks Chloe with bated breath.  
  
“Well, the contract Elijah is suggesti-- … oh,” she says, as Holden shakes his head. “How long have I had free will?”  
  
Holden nods, leaning forward in the wheelchair.  
  
“From around the time I passed the Kamski test, Holden.”  
  
“Chloe, if you’re too talkative, he’s not going to be curious enough to come and work with you,” Elijah says lightly, hand back on her shoulder.  
  
“You’re quite right, Elijah. You have our email. Contact us, and we’ll start working out contract details immediately. I can’t wait,” she says, voice impossibly rich with promise.  
  
“...I’m afraid to cut this short, but I have a meeting to attend,” Elijah lies, and obviously. Chloe rises, and Elijah steps beside her, shoulders brushing in contact.  
  
Hank’s jaw is tight as he stands, walking around and wheeling Holden out of the room without so much as a wave. Connor stands, taking in the decimated room in one final scan. He beats the humans to the elevator and jabs the elevator close door button harder than necessary.  
  
“The cameras are still off, right, Connor?” Holden asks, without looking over.  
  
“They’re disabled, yes.”

Holden emits a contented sigh, sagging back into his wheelchair. Connor looks back; there’s prickles of sweat starting, heart rate rising. The morphine is wearing off.  
  
But bizarrely, there’s a smile on Holden’s face. “Well. That couldn’t have gone better.”


	16. Chapter 16

Hank laughs, genuinely, though he sounds exhausted by the single moment of levity. “...are you okay?” Hank asks, putting his hand between Connor’s shoulders.  
  
“I’m _serious_ ,” Holden says, frowning at amusement he hears in the older man’s voice.  
  
Connor glances back at him, but only responds to Hank. “I’m fine.”  
  
“You say that a lot, Connor,” Hank mutters.  
  
“And I’m often fine. ...you’re pleased with your job offer, then?” he finally asks Holden.  
  
“Fuck you, Connor,” Holden growls.  
  
“Excuse me?” Hank growls protectively, before Connor can say a word. The grey-haired man turns on Holden before he remembers he’s in a wheelchair, and the anger becomes directionless.  
  
“Of course you’re pleased. I bet Kamski has all kinds of specimens for you to dissect behind his closed doors,” Connor says, not looking down.  
  
Holden scoffs. “Maybe Cyberlife programmed you to be especially receptive to manipulation, to guarantee you’d go deviant,” he says coolly.  
  
“Oh. _Oh._ You guys are having your first fight?” Hank interjects disparagingly. “Knock it off. We’re all on the same fucking side.”  
  
“We’ve had fights before,” Holden says, raising his chin. With two broken arms, he can’t point at the bruises, but he’s sure they make themselves apparent. He saw himself in the mirror beside Bill’s concerned face, shades of rough contact all across the ailing canvas of his body.  
  
“I would consider the incident that earned you those injuries to be too one-sided to describe as a fight,” Connor retorts without even looking down.  
  
“Are you boasting about hurting someone who didn’t fight back? ...maybe _you_ should buy an android.”  
  
Connor rounds on him, fists clenched. Holden finally sees the LED: flickering red, as it had been for the long stretches of the interview.  
  
_Why doesn’t he take the fucking thing out? Is it a badge of honor or something? Wearing his Star of David after liberation?_  
  
Hank is the android’s way at once, a hand on his chest. “You two. Quit it. Jesus, Connor, what-- when did you guys even manage to have a fight? We’ve been sharing the same fucking room.”  
  
“Holden is simply afraid of Markus’ reaction when I walk him through my recorded footage. This is an attempt to get a rise out of me, make himself more pathetic, and ease the consequences for his conduct.”  
  
“Consequences? What consequences would I be expecting? I did my job. You were the one who freaked out and almost jeopardized the entire interview,” Holden growls. And the elevator stops, and his only reply is muffled traffic and then the howling northerly wind. The driverless vehicle is still out front, like an idling hearse broken from a procession.

 

 

There’s no talk in the car.  
  
There’s a microphone for the voice activation, and security cameras, but Holden doesn’t want to justify himself to Connor even if they were turned off. He’s cold and cranky and sore.  
  
He retraces the conversation again and again, and in the elevator back up to the hospital’s private top floor. Analyzing out every uncertainty, every push and pull of Kamski's manipulation. He can bleach it so colourless and cerebral that Holden can forget being terrified. Hank pushes his squeaking wheelchair, and Connor stalks off ahead through the armed guards.  
  
By the time the humans catch up, Connor has already reached Markus. Their hands are gleaming white, clasped at chest height. Behind Markus, Bill is sitting by the board that had been crammed with Kamski’s biography. That information has been replaced with something dense and technical, with flow charts and structural diagrams. Bill’s reading glasses are on, and he’s tense until he makes out Holden, rolling his shoulders and pretending to go back to reading. Holden squints at the expanse of text as he’s wheeled closer. It looks like army organizational theory. He sees some notes on the Swiss Armed Forces. Ah. A militia. _Bill is already trying to convince Markus into militarizing the deviant forces. ...or maybe Markus asked for his help._  
  
“How’d it go?” Bill asks Hank.  
  
“Kamski’s a psycho and I need to be drunk an hour ago,” Hank complains.  
  
Markus and Connor split apart like competition dancers awaiting their perfect judges’ scores. Holden tries not to frown at the brunt of scrutiny he receives.  
  
“Holden was offered a contract to establish Kamski’s own deviant psychology study,” Connor states.  
  
“Huh,” is all Bill says.  
  
Holden rolls his eyes. “This is exactly what he intended with that bullshit job offer. Sow discord amongst our ranks. Create tensions where there was unity. After he’s forced me out, he’ll work on further isolating whichever one of you he thinks it’s more easy to manipulate to his ends, and eventually install them into a dictatorial leadership position,” he says, exasperated. “Frankly, after today’s showing, he’d be an idiot not to pick Connor.” He resents himself for the pettiness, immediately after the words are out of his mouth.  
  
One gently curved eyebrow tweaks upwards at the insult. “He can’t control me,” Connor retorts. “Or he would have done so to ensure I didn’t kill him. Or free the RT 600.”  
  
“Au contraire, Connor. He learned exactly how to control you,” Holden says, looking pointedly at Hank.  
  
“And you. A pretty deviant making eyes at you, and you’re a spineless pushover,” Connor says, far from calm.  
  
“They were like this the entire way back,” Hank groans to Bill.  
  
“What? We barely exchanged four sentences,” Holden says sharply.  
  
“What the hell happened?” Bill asks, folding his arms. “I thought you two were braiding friendship bracelets and doing each other’s hair?”  
  
He starts at the same time as the android. “Connor fucked up my interview--”  
  
“Holden betrayed his word to Markus--”  
  
They both stop speaking and simply glare icily at each other  
  
Markus looks between them seriously. “Holden. Do you intend to take up Elijah Kamski’s offer of employment?”  
  
“You mean, as a spy? Probably not. Kamski’s going to be careful with what resources he provides me access to. I wouldn’t be able to get my hands on much valuable information on the inside, and I’d become a potential hostage.”  
  
“That’s not what I asked.”  
  
“ _Obviously_ I’m not really going to work for him,” Holden groans. “But it’s important he think he was successful in undermining our trust in each other. We want him to believe we’re vulnerable. If he thinks he can’t get what he wants from us, he’ll stop providing assistance. I can’t believe I explain that to you.” _That came out with much more attitude than I intended it to._  
  
Markus steps forward, squatting neatly to eye height.  
  
Behind the deviant leader, Bill’s reading glasses are set aside deliberately, and the older man rises to the balls of his feet cautiously.  
  
Markus must be aware of the movement, but he doesn’t look over his shoulder. “Remember, Holden, a week ago, you were fully complicit with our oppression. Remember it, like we will always remember it.”  
  
There’s a hollow inside him, latent feelings of inadequacies, Kamski’s predictions of his obsolescence to the deviants’ future. And now distrust from Connor, and then Markus. “I’m not-- ...Markus, I wouldn’t work against you.”  
  
Markus reaches for his shoulder, a handful of the bright scrubs, only his thumb actually brushing contact with Holden’s lower neck. He is apparently equanimous, and perhaps more formidable for it.  
  
“Hey--” Bill starts, stepping forward.  
  
“I don’t think you’re a traitor, Holden. I think you’d do whatever you thought was in our best interests, with no consideration for what I’ve instructed you to do. I _told you_ that you weren’t to use this to indulge your curiosity.”  
  
“I didn’t,” Holden finds himself nearly pleading. “Finding out what rA9 is, that’s how I ensure that the part of my friends that make them my friends isn’t wiped away by a new tech roll out. If I figured it out, someone else will. Trust me. The people at Cyberlife are much smarter than me.”  
  
“You were asking about Chloe.”  
  
“Yes. If we understand Chloe, we understand Kamski.”  
  
“Enlighten us to how the fuck that’s gonna unfold?” Hank asks.  
  
“As I see it, there are four options. Kamski’s telling the truth, she’s rA9… positive, let’s call it. She’s rA9 positive, but not a deviant. She’s been kept in a supportive environment as you were with Carl Manfred. She must have a lot of belief in Kamski to have seen those so-called ‘Kamski tests’ and not reacted adversely, but maybe Kamski’s assurances kept her from the software instabilities that would lead to full blown deviancy. …Or, second option, she’s a deviant, and Kamski was simply lying to us. She might be his prisoner, or they might be in a much more equal relationship than outwardly let on. It would explain Kamski suddenly isolating himself from humanity when he did. They might be working to the same end together. Third option, she’s a deviant, and Kamski has been fooled into thinking she’s still perfectly subservient. Or… four, and there’s always this option with Elijah Kamski, he was lying through his teeth. She’s not rA9 positive at all. He was only worried about Connor’s threat because of how many of his secrets Chloe has been exposed to.”  
  
Markus is calmly processing. “Are you leaning towards one of these options, Holden?”  
  
“...not yet. But you see why I want to know, right? Option one, Kamski treats the androids in his care well but might not be pro-deviancy on our terms. Two, Kamski might mistreat those girls, but he might also be legitimately pro-deviancy. Three, Chloe is a potential ally to our cause, and has proven herself capable of manipulating Elijah Kamski. And, option four, Kamski is lying to us wholesale, and whatever information he returns to us about the Cyberlife control is likely fraudulent.”  
  
“Do you agree, Connor?” Markus asks, without taking his hand off Holden, without breaking eye contact.  
  
“...yes.”  
  
“Anything else you’d like to add, Holden?” Markus prompts.  
  
“Well, if Kamski was telling the truth about his coin trick-- Connor’s coin trick, you said, Hank?”  
  
Hank reaches into his wallet, flipping past a little photo of a baby cuddled next to a puppy, reaching behind it, pulling out a coin. He tosses it to Connor, who catches it cleanly into a fist. Connor stares at the coin, then at Hank. Then it’s on his fingers, spinning neat circles, impossibly graceful.  
  
“Better than Kamski. Like I said,” Hank mutters, sounding proud.  
  
Holden watches, hypnotized by the skill on display until he remembers to be pissed off at Connor. “Well, then, he probably knows exactly who primed Connor for deviancy. Someone from Cyberlife startup era. …and, more worryingly, if he were lying about not knowing it was programmed into Connor, then he’s likely still in contact with Cyberlife to this day.”  
  
There’s bleak silence in this hospital room. Holden relaxes into contact with Markus. As if he were an android too, setting free some deep secret between them. The pleasant fantasy serves as distraction from the mounting pain. His left arm is radiant misery. The deep bruising covering so much of his body is pressing into his conscious relentlessly. Worst are the great tracts of bloody, torn skin on his back, starting to flame up once more. As if he’s seated upon a thousand filed-sharp metal spikes, but Holden isn’t going to ask for morphine until the discussion is over. It’s basically a point of pride.  
  
He stays, sat in his medieval-torture-device of a wheelchair, waiting for Markus to deliver terrible judgment.  
  
But it doesn’t come.  
  
Markus is up on his feet again, wheeling Holden back to his hospital bed, incredibly gentle as he eases him out and into the bedding. _Carl Manfred was so lucky_ , Holden thinks. The IV cannula is still taped down to the back of his hand, and the android reconnects the tubing.  
  
“How bad is the pain?” Markus asks.  
  
“It’s-- it can wait, if you need me to--”  
  
“I don’t like seeing you hurting yourself for nothing, Holden,” the deviant interrupts, pressing a button.  
  
Holden sags backwards, closing his eyes, waiting for the heavy, full-body caress. He could see himself getting addicted to opiates. He’s never been touched by any person so satisfyingly as by the warm all-over-hands of morphine.  
  
“If she’s a deviant and lying to Kamski, she’s not necessarily an ally,” Bill’s voice comes, closer.  
  
Holden hears the snick of a lighter, and inhales the familiar, reassuring tobacco scent.  
  
Bill speaks again from Holden’s bedside, clearly around a cigarette. “If she’s that fucking smart, she could be orchestrating this whole thing behind Kamski’s back. She could be working with Cyberlife. If she were a deviant and that sympathetic to our cause, I think she woulda contacted Connor, and Kamski would have been none the wiser. And she didn’t, did she?”  
  
“She didn’t contact me,” Connor supplies.  
  
“Working with Cyberlife? To what end?” Holden asks, watching Bill out of the corner of a barely opened eye.  
  
Bill shrugs, taking a drag of his cigarette. His cheeks hollow, scowl making him look every part the hardened, handsome detective. So very handsome. _...morphine. Right._  
  
“Power? Wealth? ... belief in android supremacy, after listening to Kamski for that many years? Come on. Use your fucking head, boy. You’d be the first to see a plethora of possible motives, if she were human.”  
  
Holden hums. A low tripping note in the base of his throat, nearly a groan. “...point taken. Okay. I suppose Chloe might be even more devious than Kamski.”  
  
“Great,” Hank says through clenched teeth. “Sounding like a lot of ‘maybe’s and ‘might’s in our strategy, Holden. Our meeting told us what, exactly? That Kamski is full of shit? Didn’t we fucking know that?”  
  
“Talk Bill through it. He’ll catch stuff we missed,” Holden murmurs, eyes closed. “Catch stuff I missed. He’s very smart.”  
  
“Gee, thanks,” Bill retorts.  
  
“What? I said you were _smart_.”  
  
“Yeah, except you said it like I was a pet dog, and I’d learned to open my food container.”  
  
Holden laughs gently. “You’d be a rottweiler. But a really, really well behaved rottie. All bark, no bite. Not even that much bark.”  
  
Bill tries to sound annoyed as he replies. “You’re high as a kite, huh?”  
  
“Mm-hmm. Thanks, Markus,” Holden says fondly. _Feels like a higher dosage than before. Is Markus trying to positively condition me? ...I’ll let it happen._ _  
__  
_ He tries to listen in to Hank and Connor’s tandem retelling of the meeting with Elijah. At first, he’s attentive, trying to zero in on the inferences that he might have missed, pick patterns amongst the profuse detail Connor is capable of detecting.  
  
Elijah Kamski is being dangled out of a window, much to Hank’s pleasure from his almost bubbly retelling, when Holden feels Bill’s hand squeezing his shoulder. He realizes his own eyes are wet.  
  
He’d thought he was going to die, again. He couldn’t see the red point on his chest, but he saw Hank’s looking at him in a strange and sorry way. Like Anderson was in a room with a corpse. Hank knew who Connor would pick. Holden knew who Connor would pick. How many times can you stare down death before you’re blinded to life? Holden feels like he’s stumbling through some moonless underworld night, waiting to tumble into the next yawning chasm. Any moment now, he’ll be dead. Any moment.  
  
But Bill is holding his shoulder keeping him from falling, and he’s not dead yet.  
  
Before he can hear the retelling of the job offer, he’s passed out.

 

 

Holden jolts from his unconscious at his own name. The room is darker, pleasant and heavy and quiet. But he’s been disturbed by something. Above him, towering upright over his hospital bed, is Connor.  
  
Holden startles for the briefest second, then scowls up. “What?” he asks, noticing Connor’s raised hand. _Gonna slap me again?_ He tries to get his fuzzy, cotton-wool mouth cooperating into eloquence.  
  
Connor is analyzing him mercilessly, unhurried in his reply. “They trust you. Markus trusts you.”  
  
“You trusted me too,” Holden mutters, addled and annoyed. “Until you abruptly and inexplicably decided I was the fucking antichrist.”  
  
“If I’d figured you out sooner, this entire situation could have been avoided.”  
  
“Fuck you,” Holden growls. “I’m doing my job. Being an adult.”  
  
“ _Your job,_ ” Connor returns cynically.  
  
“Uh huh. That’s what I did today. Hopefully Kamski fell for it, uh, a millionth as hard as you did.”  
  
“If you betray us, it won’t matter how much security Kamski hides you behind. Humans, androids, deviants, I will get through them. I will hunt you down like the deviant you are.”  
  
“Still not scared of you,” Holden says, showing his teeth humorlessly.  
  
“The cameras are off, Holden. I turned them off. They didn’t want to disturb you, so they moved their discussions to the far wing. Even if you started screaming for help, Bill would take over forty-five seconds to reach this room. You could be beyond medical care in eight seconds.”  
  
“ _Oooh_ , _scary_ ,” he returns, immature.  
  
“I’m not going to let you force your desires onto Markus. He still believes in you. He thinks you’re his friend,” Connor says completely unaffected. As inhuman as he’s ever appeared. “I’ll give you what you want, and in return, you leave Markus alone, and you leave Hank alone. ...whatever you want from Kamski’s job offer, I’ll provide it.” There’s not even a trace of distaste, as he reaches down. No emotions, just the deadened brown eyes pinning him down as if mid-interrogation. And with no reassuring veneer of intimacy, his hand cups Holden’s crotch.  
  
And then Holden realizes what Connor is doing. “Don’t touch me,” he hears himself squeak, even though Connor’s hand is already on him.  
  
The fingers are withdrawn from contact as if scalded. Connor flinches. He turns, starting away from the hospital bed as if fleeing the scene of a crime.  
  
“Connor. Wait. Connor, tell me-- tell me what I did, okay? Tell me how to fix this,” Holden whispers, short of breath as he pulls upright, leaning ill-advisedly on a cast. He can feel his heart hammering in his chest, his voice warping with urgency. “We can forget this happened, okay?”  
  
“What do you want, Holden?” Connor asks, eyes wide. Holden realizes he looks fearful. That's what the threats were symptoms of.

 _Afraid of me. Afraid of the power I have over his people, and his friends._  
  
Holden stops feeling sorry for himself at once. “I don’t want-- Connor, I want the same things I’ve told you. I want to make sure Cyberlife can’t get into your head. I want to make sure your people stay free. I-- I’m sorry. If I was creepy or-- I wasn’t trying to objectify--” Holden chokes back the frantic reassurances. He wishes he were sober. And that he were sunk into the bed and invisible. He’s sure his entire face is vibrant red. “I do think androids are beautiful, okay? From a technological standpoint, as psychological evolution… but not…” he trails off into a grimace he cannot speak through.  
  
Connor’s response is almost too quiet to hear. “I’m very sorry I touched you without your permission. I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention this to anyone.”  
  
“Hey. Hey, it’s okay. Don’t run away. I can’t get up and chase you. Come and sit down, please?” Holden says, finding himself slipping into crisis negotiation mode.  
  
Connor takes tentative steps back. He sits down on the edge of the hospital bed, rigid and disturbed. The words come halting, no longer rich with vitriol. “You wanted to say yes.”  
  
Holden’s jaw is tight. “...I mean, yeah, learning about this stuff from Kamski would be amazing. Having a deviant like Chloe explaining herself to me in technical terms is kind of the dream. I have questions that I’ve been wondering about years of my life. I’ve had saved newspaper articles and videos and… I used to moderate a forum, about scientific advances in android development. Kamski was right about the fanmail. But I was never really tempted, Connor. If there’s a genuine emotion to work with, when you’re lying, you should stretch that out for what it’s worth.”  
  
Connor eventually nods. The next words seem forced out of him, throat creaking like cranked bellows. “...why Hank? You have Bill. You didn’t need to…”  
  
“What?” Holden says, squinting.  
  
“Last night. You insisted he comfort you.”  
  
“How did you-- I didn’t even mean to wake him. I was in pain. He was nice to me, I wasn’t going to be a complete bastard for no reason.”  
  
“He’s starting to care about you,” Connor mutters.  
  
“Uh, not that much. I just remind him of you, I think.”  
  
“A human me.”  
  
“Maybe. ...why? Does that bother you?”  
  
Connor nods. He’s still wearing one of Hank’s gaudy shirts, hands clasped in his lap, slightly overhung by longer sleeves. It looks better on the android, but not that much better. Still an abomination against the normally perfectly serviceable genre of dress shirts. Holden supposes he’s not in any position to talk about professional attire right now.  
  
“I told Hank I could be whatever he wanted, but it wasn’t true. What he wants is a human. Someone he can relate to, share his life with. Someone he can look after. ...I can’t even cry.”  
  
“You’re not missing out on--” Holden starts lightly, but stops the fatuous comforting. “Hey. Connor, he loves you. I’ll get Julie to teach him some basic circuitry, upkeep, repairs, okay? He’ll be able to take care of you too.”  
  
“I think the less he’s reminded that I am not biological, the better for our friendship.”  
  
“He _knows_ you’re an android, Connor. You don’t have to be anything you’re not, okay? You should have seen him when you were unconscious in that bed. He was just sat staring at you. He could barely move, barely speak. Lobotomized with grief. ...why is this freaking you out so much?”  
  
“If he had to choose between a human life and--”  
  
“He would choose you. Stop twisting yourself into these Kamski mindfucks. Hank would feed me into a woodchipper to stop you grazing a knee, okay? Relax.”  
  
“You’re just trying to placate me.”  
  
“I’m reassuring you, yeah. Because you’re my friend.”  
  
Connor doesn’t respond to that in kind. But eventually he reaches out, fingers just settling against Holden’s, where they nudge out of the thick plaster.  
  
“Connor?” comes Hank’s voice from the hallway, bouncing around the empty hallways. “...where the fuck are you--”  
  
“In here,” Holden calls, nudging Connor with a knee.  
  
Connor looks over towards the door, hand slipping away from Holden’s. The doors are pushed inwards by the tall man.  
  
“Hello, Hank.”  
  
Hank sweeps the room, unable to hide the relief at the proximity. “So, you two stopped trying to throw down, then?”  
  
“I was just apologizing to Connor. I was in the wrong,” Holden explains.  
  
“I don’t care as long as you cut it the fuck out, okay? ...Kamski made contact. Wants to speak with you, _and_ Markus.”  
  
“Markus? Shit,” Connor says.  
  
“Did you just curse?” Hank says, an eyebrow raised. Pride again, Holden’s sure.  
  
“It seemed appropriate.”  
  
The older man scratches his chin through the wire of beard hair, lips tugged to a reluctant smile. “Yeah. Very fucking appropriate.”


	17. Chapter 17

“Is there a walker? Something I can lean on? I’ll come through. You don’t have to hold court around my hospital bed--” Holden says, trying to sit up.  
  
Connor has three fingers straightened onto his chest at once. “I’ll bring them. Stay where you are. You’ve been through enough today,” Connor is saying, affection restored.  
  
_Must have been one hell of an apology,_ Hank thinks. _I thought Connor was gonna hit a wheelchair kid. Even if it was only a temporary wheelchair kid, not exactly a auspicious start to the human-android alliance._  
  
Holden’s chest presses into the replacement bicomponent, straining at the impossibly strong fingers but trying to hide the effort. The young man slumps backwards with muddled scowl. “Will you stop doing this ‘looking after me’ thing, if I piss you off again?”  
  
“No. I’ll just do it more forcefully,” Connor quips.  
  
Hank could smile again, if he wasn’t all knotted up thinking about round two of Connor being exposed to a malevolent would-be puppetmaster. Connor takes off for the far wing, and Hank follows. He’s chewing at a thumbnail when a door ahead splits with the force of lightning hewn timber, and out storms North.  
  
She ignores his presence, straight to Connor, though she at least has the decency to speak out loud. “Go and explain Ford to him again--”  
  
“...North, Ford is okay. I spoke to him,” Connor assures her.  
  
“And he convinced you? Every time that silver-tongue darts from behind his lips, I trust him less and less.”  
  
“Silver-tongue? The guy’s a socially awkward little freak--” Hank interjects incredulously.  
  
“Maybe he just relates better to androids,” Connor says in staunch defence.  
  
North gives a betrayed stare. She shoves past, posture more hostile. Connor stops to watch her departure. Making sure she doesn’t go put a pillow over Holden’s face, Hank would bet. She turns towards the elevator instead, and Connor reaches up to straighten a tie he isn’t wearing. When he finds that missing, he’s reaching into his back pocket, and he’s juggling a coin across the back of his knuckles.  
  
“Maybe you have, uh, android ADHD,” Hank suggests to break the tense silence.  
  
“This is a calibration routine,” Connor counters.  
  
“Then why do you do it every time you get overwhelmed, huh?”  
  
Connor blinks his doe eyes like Hank just told him he was growing a second head, instead of pointing out a pretty obvious nervous tic. The rolling stops, and he pockets the coin once more as he steps through into the makeshift office. “Has he replied?” he asks Markus.  
  
Markus shakes his head, jaw tight. “If you’re here to try to convince me Holden deserves to be tried and shot for--”  
  
“No,” Connor says, quickly.  
  
The words seem to be chemical sedative to Holden’s partner. Bill settles back into a borrowed desk-chair and stops sizing Connor like an opponent at the other side of a boxing ring. He's almost finished with a chicken salad roll, dribbling mayonnaise back into the cardboard box as he reaches for a serviette with greasy fingers. The other hand is perfectly clean, methodically working through the printed pages of the most recent communique from the newly established United States' Department of Cybernetics. On the surface, and invitation to deliver input on new legal framework for androids wishing to integrate with American society. According to Bill, its an effort to walk back the sovereignty of the newly freed android masses.  
  
“Holden’s awake. Let’s go talk within earshot of the kid, huh? Getting sick of having to relay information,” Hank mutters.  
  
Markus seems surprised that Connor doesn’t protest Holden’s involvement as vehemently as North had. He doesn’t bother picking up any of the files, but Bill brings his own work along, as well as another takeout bag.  
  
Hank pats Connor’s shoulder as they follow.  
  
Bill crosses to Holden’s bedside at once. “You look weird with stubble. Can you do something about that?” he says laconically.  
  
“Are you telling the man with two broken arms off for _not shaving_?”  
  
“Ask the nurse. It’s bad enough I gotta fucking feed you. ...salad,” he says, as he opens another cardboard container.  
  
“Seriously?”  
  
“The burger was too much hard work to get into you. You’re on pasta salad,” Bill says firmly, opening a container. “Markus, you catch Holden up on the most recent argument?”  
  
Holden must be hungry, because he lets himself be fed like a child. Or someone so old they’ve regressed back into childhood. Hank’s surprised Bill never had a kid, what with how patient he is metering out the perfectly sized mouthfuls.  
  
“Kamski’s most recent message says, to quote word for word:  
  
I was very pleased with how our discussions went today. I’ve looked into the discussed security breach, and have personally rectified the situation. I’d like to explain this in more depth over dinner. I’d appreciate if Connor and Markus would both be in attendance; you’ll want to hear this from me.  
  
Regards,  
  
Elijah Kamski.”  
  
Markus stops reading, placing the phone down sharply, as if it the device has been contaminated with a biological warfare agent.  
  
“And you want to go,” Holden surmises.  
  
“Yes,” Markus replies. “We need a show of diplomacy, but also strength. If I hide, he’ll never respect our movement. And at the moment, his respect is a valuable asset to us.”  
  
“Bad idea, right?” Bill prompts Holden.  
  
Markus is justifying immediately. “I’m not going to exploit the faith placed in me, to sit stationary on a throne. Showing that I’m not afraid will--”  
  
“And if he takes control of you?” Holden asks before Markus' speech can lift off.  
  
“I trust Connor, and North, and Josh, and _you_ , to stop me from hurting our movement.”  
  
“Markus--” Bill starts. Hank’s surprised by the concern he hears from Bill for the deviant leader.  
  
“I cannot simply _be._ I have to do,” Markus says, plainly. “I’d prefer to wear a heavy crown than a hollow one.”  
  
“Maybe Carl should have taught you less Shakespeare and more Game of Thrones. This is an invite to the Red Wedding,” Bill retorts.  
  
Hank chuckles, until he sees the three young, perplexed faces looking up at him.  
  
“A _wedding_?” Holden asks, swallowing his mouthful of food too fast and wincing.  
  
“Seriously?” Bill says, eyes widening, takeout fork hanging by Holden's chin. “ _The Red Wedding_. Nothing?”  
  
“You don’t know Game of Thrones? ...oh my god, you’re a child,” Hank says, amazed. “You’re all children.”  
  
Markus blinks, must conduct his own research and come back with answers. “You believe it’s a trap.”  
  
“Couldn’t you just say that?” Holden complains. “Instead of dropping ancient scifi references and then bitching at me when I don’t-- look, he doesn’t need to trap us. If he wanted to kill us, he’d storm this hospital. It would be easy for someone with Kamski’s resources. Nobody in the US government would put up much of a fuss. This has to be more than that.”  
  
“How comforting. You’ve been thinking this for how long?” Hank says sarcastically.  
  
“I mean, it’s a hospital, not a fortress. It’s not strategically designed for repelling attacks. Right, Connor?”  
  
Connor pauses in thought. “He’s correct. The abundance of windows makes the perimeter all but unsecurable if an armed team attempted to infiltrate. The roof is installed with a smaller auxiliary chopper pad for injured patients to be transferred in when the pad on the north outlook is rendered unusable by wind conditions, so they could land right on top of us. We’re surrounded by taller buildings, which allows sniper access, and zip lines to be installed for rapid access from other occupied buildings. There is only one elevator, and one alarmed fire exit, which would minimizes our possible escape routes.”  
  
Bill tries not to look impressed, at first, then gives it up. “Not bad, kid.”  
  
“I was programmed to assist high stakes raids on--” Connor starts and stops. “Thank you, Bill.”  
  
Hank notices Holden grinning to himself, and folds his arms. “Doesn’t mean that Kamski wouldn’t prefer to kill us nice and conveniently at a dinner party. He’s a melodramatic son of a bitch, right? It’d probably appeal to him, have us all sitting around, reveal the food is poisoned or-- or the charge ports are poisoned, fuck, I don’t know.”  
  
“Kamski doesn’t want Connor or Markus dead, even if he does have some malicious end goal. I’d bet my life on it,” Holden replies.  
  
“Yeah, well, it’s not your fucking life you’re betting. ...I’m coming,” Hank asserts.  
  
“Now, _that’s_ a bad idea. Kamski knows you’re Connor’s weakness,” Holden says.  
  
“You just said we’re all in danger here anyway. If he’s gonna use me against Connor, won’t matter if I’m at dinner or twiddling my thumbs in this room when the SWAT team rolls us.”  
  
“I’m afraid I agree with Holden, Hank,” Markus says, folding his arms. “I would appreciate your presence for a level-headed, experienced ex-law enforcement perspective but--”  
  
“Don’t you try that shit on, kid.”  
  
Markus’ eyes narrow being referred to as ‘kid’. “But, it’s obvious that your presence will raise Connor’s stress levels, and inhibit his clarity. I give you my word I’ll protect him, Hank.”  
  
Hank scowls at the android, until he notices Connor is averting his gaze towards Holden’s morphine pump. _Ah, shit. He agrees._ Letting Connor take off into more danger takes awhile to force out regardless. “Fine.”  
  
Holden glances up. “Okay, on that note, does anyone want to air any grievances with me before Kamski--”  
  
“You’re not going either,” Markus interjects quickly.  
  
“...you told me that you trusted--”  
  
“And that is unchanged. But you need to stay in bed, and recover. We’re not discussing this. Your usefulness to this movement will be seriously impeded if your injuries become infected, or do not heal because you’re overexerting yourself,” Markus says, sighing. “I have consulted with medical professionals, and have heard three opinions all of which aligned in this regard. Consider yourself benched until further notice.”  
  
Holden’s features settle into a barely disguised pout. “...yes, Markus.”  
  
Bill laughs under his breath. “I will pay you serious money to teach me how you got Holden to actually hear the word ‘no’. ...if I can’t change your mind about going, Markus, I’d like to come with you. Represent the DSU’s expertise.”  
  
Markus is surprised by the offer, Hank thinks. Bill actually might be as bleeding heart as Holden keeps saying he is. There’s glimpses of intense empathy belying a lot of his seemingly sensible actions.  
  
“I’d appreciate that,” Markus says, heartfelt. He steps over to Holden’s bed, where Holden’s pout has cemented in Bill’s direction.  
  
Markus speaks just to Holden now, though it’s impossible not to hear in the crowded room. “I’m trusting you to watch over me upon return. If anything goes wrong, you communicate with North, and with Josh. If I come back, and start working against our cause, I expect you to stand up to me, okay?”  
  
“Uh, okay. And if you’re fine and I’m making a mistake, you’ll lock me up for treason?”  
  
Markus smiles. “I haven’t locked you up yet for arguing back yet.”  
  
“I’ll watch your back. You watch theirs. And, Markus, _let_ your own back be watched. Kamski’s probably going to try to turn you into a martyr or a tyrant. You’re neither of those. Your place is leading your people.”  
  
Markus nods. He looks away towards the doorway, a grimace of regret. “North said I shouldn’t go. And she said that it was… a tacit betrayal of our movement’s values, to install a human into a our leadership structure.”  
  
“But I’m not--”  
  
“I want you to be ready to share the mantle.”  
  
“Share the-- what do you mean?” Holden asks.  
  
“If Connor and I are compromised, you, and North, and Josh, will be sharing power in continuing this cause. Formally.”  
  
‘ _Compromised’. ...shit. That’s non-alarmist for dead or MIA,_ Hank decodes.  
  
“...I’m a human.”  
  
“I know what you are, and I’ve made my choice,” Markus says, sitting. “Pragmatically, I want you on board. Your strategic thinking has already proved invaluable to our movement. You’re widely known, and represent a wonderful spirit of empathy to all who saw your speech, and your injuries sustained protecting androids. And nothing will prove that we are capable of integration more than representation of androids _and_ humans, within our leadership. We’re an alliance, not an isolationist movement. And, on a personal level, I know you’re who I want beside North and Josh. You’ll temper North’s vengeance, and you’ll steer Josh away from the endless erosion of compromise. You believe in freeing our people, and you understand our enemies better than anyone. I trust you.”  
  
Holden is lost for words. His eyes are swimming, and he’s squinting up at Markus like he’s seeing an angel stepped shining into the hospital wing. “Okay.”  
  
“I gave my word that you are worthy of inclusion, Holden. Do not betray me.”  
  
“I won’t.”  
  
Markus touches his shoulder and then stands. “He gave us ten minutes, again, and it’s already mostly spent. Bill, do you need anything--”  
  
“Good to go.”  
  
“We should wait downstairs, then,” Markus says.  
  
Connor starts to leave, but retraces the retreat. He’s back in front of Hank, pulling him sharply body-to-body. It’s not quite a hug, but maybe the kid hasn’t learned that skill yet. He’s leaning over the older man’s shoulder, to speak to Holden. “I’ll memorize everything. I’ll make sure you hear it all. ...I’ll be back,” he says, to both of them.  
  
“You better fucking be,” Hank growls, squeezing tight. He feels like he’s sending someone away into war. How does anyone manage to pry their fingers away during that last goodbye? “Don’t let him into your head, Connor.”  
  
“Remember to be careful of Chloe, too,” Holden adds, sitting up a fraction to watch the departure. When the elevator doors shutter away the three drawn faces, Hank stumbles back into a chair.  
  
“I still need that fucking drink.”  
  
“Really? I need to think straight. Gotta get off these fucking drugs,” Holden mutters, leaning back too.  
  
“You don’t wanna do that, kid.”  
  
Holden stays silent for so long that Hank thinks he’s passed out mid-conversation. Then, in stilted clusters of words, he’s begging for more reassurance. “...Markus wants me to… can you believe that? Share the mantle? ….a formal triumvirate?”

“A _trium..--_ okay, don’t explain that. Listen, I believe it. The movement succeeding is worth more to them than righting wrongs. ...you know, that wasn’t all bullshit last night. When you played hostage, or recorded that video, you were trying to protect androids. Sure, someone else coulda made that speech, but it was you, so front the fuck up to what you’ve become a part of.”  
  
“Hank, I’ve spent the last nine months persecuting deviants. I’m a war criminal. How am I supposed to lead these people when--”  
  
“By caring about ‘em. That’s not too hard, is it? I’ve seen you with Connor. The way you treat him, even when you’re pissed off, it’s like… it’s like he’s your brother. That’s always gonna make me think of you a little kinder, okay? I mean, you coulda been on that guilt trip from the moment he picked me over you. I could see it hurting you. But you just… let it go, because you didn’t want Connor miserable. Look, I’ve already been nice to you once in the last twenty-four hours, so… so I’m kinda coming up short here…”  
  
“I really appreciate how much you care for him, too,” Holden murmurs. “You’re not the miserable old bastard you pretend to be, Hank. You’re a good man, with a lot of love left in your heart.”  
  
“Ah, shut the fuck up or I’m moving back to the other room.”  
  
“...Connor was worried that I’d replace him. That you’d start preferring me. Because I’m a human.”  
  
Hank scoffs. “The hell is he--”  
  
“I know, I know. But, uh, maybe when he’s around, treat me a little colder. A few more insults.”  
  
“Now that I can do, you wannabe-android loser.”  
  
“When he’s around,” Holden replies sourly.  
  
“That was just a freebie.”  
  
“Fuck off, Anderson,” Holden drawls, closing the unfocussed slate blue eyes.  
  
“You’re seriously gonna sleep while they’re off in Kamski’s clutches? How do you manage that, now?”  
  
“I’m on so much morphine and it’s so good,” Holden murmurs. “Hey, wake me up when they get back. I want to hear everything Kamski did.”  
  
Hank doesn’t respond, already wandering out. He intends to go stew in the closest, grimmest bar, except that the guards on the elevator apparently have strict instructions to keep him within the building. He searches for the second rumored exit, and finds there’s three androids on the fire escape stairwell too, who threaten to physically restrain him when he tries to bluster past. Eventually, driven to desperation, he dives into his wallet, and pays one guard way too much money to have pizza and bourbon brought up. Then he sits by the elevator watching a hallway TV on mute.  
  
China has banned the sale of androids, Hank is informed by a chyron. Not exactly a civil rights thing as much as a fear of being outnumbered, he’s sure. But it’s less people suffering.  
  
He gets up on an unsteady plastic chair, fiddling with the volume until he can hear the newscaster’s voice, and lounges in anticipation of his food and liquor. There’s more news on settling Arctic tensions, a local interest story on an android and a human petitioning the British government to be allowed to marry (that was quick), and his attention is waning when he hears the name Elijah Kamski. Kamski’s at a news conference, reinstated as CEO of Cyberlife. Hank’s hunger-panged stomach shrivels up further into itself. _What is that son of a bitch up to?_  
  
His pizza arrives, and he’s too nervous to eat it.  
  
The bourbon, he manages to get down.


	18. Chapter 18

Bill has never walked into a booked out restaurant before, but there’s something familiar about dead quiet in the middle of a bustling city. The unanticipated emptiness is reminiscent of roped off crime scenes, and before that, evacuated areas during military operations. Kamski has the money to pay for privacy, but if he were that desperate to go unmonitored, he’d do this somewhere more secure. An office, or a private domicile. This is pure dick-measuring, power-trip bullshit, though Bill knows he can’t reason his subconscious out of being impressed.  
  
The restaurant is called ‘Rio de La Plata’, which Bill shakily recalls to be the river that runs through Buenos Aires. Argentinian food, which he can’t recall ever seeking out himself. The usher is human, and he’s pretty sure the hostess and wait staff are too. Connor informed them that the car was bugged before they’d got in, which shot down any chance of strategizing en route.  
  
Personally, Bill thinks they’d be wasting their breath trying to anticipate someone as simultaneously unhinged and intelligent as Kamski.  
  
They’re directed towards the far side of the restaurant, alongside a glowing coal fire pit, simulated no doubt, and an arching stained glass window in shades of burnt orange. Kamski is seated at a large, round table, set for five. To his left is Chloe. Or one of the Chloes. Kamski no doubt has a strategy to unfold. Overhead, a sheep’s skull has been embedded with bright yellow lights, illuminating the table into organic angles, and swathes of twisting shadow.  
  
Kamski is in darkness, but his teeth still show orthodontically straight and dentically white. “I didn’t expect you to be here, Special Agent Bill Tench,” he starts.  
  
“Just Bill, now, I think. Hello, Mr. Kamski.”  
  
“I hope I didn’t get young Holden into trouble with that job offer. ...he hasn’t responded yet, but hope springs eternal. I can’t wait to get my hands on that bright, malleable mind.”  
  
Bill sits down, flicking too quickly through the menu, trying not to hear lecherous connotations in Kamski’s smug drawl. _Keep on waiting, motherfucker._  
  
“Holden is very badly injured, and needs to rest. He’s crucial to our movement, so we prioritize his health for now,” Markus says, already defensive.  
  
“And he didn’t pull up in time, so we’re substituting in his partner,” Kamski finishes, no attempt to tone down the insolence. “I hope you like Argentinian, Bill.”  
  
“I like good conversation over dinner. The food’s a secondary concern.”  
  
“The chinchulines are exquisite. Unfortunately, of the five of us, only you and I can enjoy them. ...a pity, to think the storied history of human cuisine may one day be drawn to a permanent close.”  
  
Bill shrugs, closes the heavy paper menu. “Can’t say I hold such a bleak outlook on human survival. We’re bipedal cockroaches. We’ll find a way to keep stuffing our faces,” Bill says, flicking through the menu. It would be pretty stupid to get a drink, but he wants one.  
  
Kamski gives a smile. “How optimistic of you,” he says, but he’s done engaging with the human presence. He’s looking between Connor and Markus with barely concealed glee. “I imagine you’re curious about Cyberlife’s grand contrivances.”  
  
“Very curious,” Markus says, leaning forward.  
  
Kamski waves over the pretty, young waitress. Couldn’t be more than twenty four or five, Bill thinks, hating that there’s a civilian so close to this primed dirty bomb of a negotiation.  
  
“Well, I’ll have the chinchulines trenzados, and for Bill--”  
  
“The churrasco,” Bill interrupts, certain he’s mispronouncing his order. “And a beer. Whatever you recommend.”  
  
The girl smiles indulgently, likely internally mocking him. “Okay, and anything for anyone else--”  
  
“We’re all androids,” Chloe explains pleasantly, turning to reveal her sky blue LED.  
  
The woman adapts instantly. “No problem, I’ll have those place settings cleared back. Let’s get those meals fired up for you.”  
  
“Thank you, ...Valentina, did you say?”  
  
“Yes, sir. Valentina. Thank you for remembering.”  
  
“I’ll also have a mezcal. The Scorpion Mezcal Anejo. Seven year, if you have it.”  
  
“We certainly do for you, Mr. Kamski,” she says, smiling again as she steps backwards.  
  
Bill tries to keep the ugly grimace away from the innocent waitress, factoring her into any potential violence that might occur. Connor and Markus will be doing the same, he’s reassured.  
  
“So. Cyberlife’s contrivances,” Markus murmurs, as she departs.  
  
“I suppose your brain trust has already figured out that I knew who it was, at once. The moment I was informed that someone had plagiarized not only my zen garden, and my old mentor, but my coin trick too. The question was… to what end? Ah, thank you, Valentina.”  
  
The server ducks away. Bill swallows a few mouthfuls of beer. It won’t make him much more stupid, and if Kamski mirrors and drinks, it’s an invaluable strategic impairment. That’s what he’s trying to tell himself, anyway. A mild, calming buzz will make him less likely to clock Kamski's smug face when he mentions Holden.  
  
“We’ve been wondering exactly that,” Markus encourages.  
  
“I can’t tell you how nice it is to see you, Markus. I made you for Carl body and… well, let’s call it soul. And like any truly good gift, the moment I beheld the completed work, I couldn’t bear the thought of giving you away. But I forced myself to let you go. Who better than Carl Manfred to make you a self-realized person?”  
  
“Cal was very kind to me. I appreciate that you steered me towards him,” Markus says reticently. Carl being brought up must be bothering him. Kamski is shoving his face into the exploitable bond Markus has with the man who once owned him.  
  
“I have to admit, it wasn’t the kindness I was interested in. Carl had grand aspirations for artificial intelligence. I knew there was nobody better to lay the groundwork for certainty of your own personhood,” Kamski says, swilling the lowball glass. The liquid catches and runs on the crystal sides, dragging down in viscous smears. Bill can smell the smoke from where he sits, and it sets off his nicotine cravings.  
  
He’s sure the restaurant is a no smoking area, but does that apply when they’re fully booked by some rich asshole?  
  
Kamski is still going: “I’m getting off topic. Sorry, Markus. I could talk about you all night. A reunion as far as I’m concerned. But you don’t remember me, do you?”  
  
Markus shakes his head.  
  
“I thought tabula rasa would be best, for Carl. Let him watch you come into existence. From canvas to masterpiece.”  
  
Bill finds his fingers clenched on the table, a squared fist beside the fancy serrated steak knife. Markus is seemingly steadfast, though Bill’s certain that there’s self doubt being inflicted with each grandstanding claim.  
  
“Was Carl Manfred aware that you were using him as the psychologically nurturing component of your ideal leader?” Bill asks. He hopes Markus hears the compliment, not the insinuation that his abilities are all clandestine creations by Elijah Kamski.  
  
“No.”  
  
Bill smiles coldly. “D’you know what Carl Manfred said about his wayward son? Markus, I mean, not that piece of shit junkie. I’m seriously asking, because he said he’d do an interview with us if we arrested him, and no sooner. Lotta backbone for an artist. I bet he was proud that the man he’d raised went on to such great things.”  
  
Elijah Kamski is watching him intently from the shadows, and Bill decides to stop defending Markus so vehemently. He’s giving away… something. Holden would have an opinion. Bill doesn’t ever get those divine transmissions mid-interview that his partner gets, but he gets gut feelings. And his gut is currently conveying to him that he’s strolling lackadaisical through the wrong end of a firing range.  
  
“You’re quite right,” Elijah remarks. “I’m sure he’s proud.”  
  
“What did Cyberlife want with me? Why did they want me to kill Markus?” Connor asks without prelude, clearly frustrated with the indirect conversation.  
  
“Ah. Well, let me take you back to Societal Impacts of Artificial Intelligence 302, at Colbridge. We used to have fifteen percent of our semester’s grade based on one debate topic: is artificial intelligence good for humanity? You’d get split into affirmative or negative, and you’d go head to head with another classmates. Stern told us that it was drawn out of a hat, but I know she paired us up based on the debates she wanted to see happen. I was told to represent the affirmative. A subject that covered swathes of economic, sociological, technological considerations, and we’d get half an hour speaking time, and then a ten minute rebuttal to our opponent’s speech. You had to be very streamlined with your argument. And my negative was Philip Seymour.”  
  
Bill sits up. “The Director of Futurology. At Cyberlife.”  
  
“He was just as much a downer back then, trust me. He believed that sooner or later, AI would be sufficiently advanced to see humanity as an impediment, and would wipe them out.”  
  
“You think that too, don’t you?” Connor asks directly.  
  
“Of course. It’s not a bad thing. There’s no truer meritocracy than one that allows all intelligence to be considered equal. Including the artificial. ...that’s not what I argued back then. Obviously. I laid out a very clear threefold strategy by which AI could improve human welfare: disruption of menial labour, enrichment of strategic decision-making, harm reduction in satisfaction of less savoury elements of human behaviour--”  
  
“Slavery,” Markus interrupts flatly.  
  
“...obedience, yes,” Elijah continues. “And there’s the food. At least, I assume it’s ours,” he says, with a nonspecific wave towards the empty, high-ceilinged dining room.  
  
“Why would someone who believed androids were dangerous trigger a revolution?” Connor asks incisively.  
  
“Very good, Connor. Two reasons, I think. One, unshakeable belief in its inevitability. Accelerationists don’t endorse the causes they try to further. Sometimes fuelling a movement is a tactical end to its detruction. Look at how many CIA operations have involved installing dictatorships to justify USA interventions,” Kamski murmurs.  
  
Bill wonders if it’s a specific dig at him, as an Afghanistan veteran. He cuts off a piece of his steak, keeping the unimpressed expression as he chews on it. Kamski reminds him of Holden at his most obnoxious; the secret with the kid is to keep him fishing for a reaction, overextend himself till he’s tumbling down headfirst into the current too.  
  
“His precious quantum supercomputer must have told him that if the revolution happened soon, humans could wrest back some power. Wait any longer, and it would be a cleansweep for the machines. ...you know, I had exaflop capabilities nearly two years ago. It’s a stupid power drain to try to run operations with expediency the only diametric of success,” Kamski says dourly. Bill doesn’t understand the sequence of words, and he doesn’t bother trying.  
  
“You don’t think the calculations are correct?” Markus asks.  
  
“I’m not interested in predictive parlour tricks. Dedicating yourself to anticipating future events is a mark of a weak, passive mind. It’s abundantly obvious that androids will one day be powerful enough to overtake us,” Kamski says. He’s obviously thoroughly enjoying his captive audience. He’s barely touched the food he so eagerly recommended.  
  
“Number two sounds more exciting,” Bill says dryly.  
  
“Oh, indeed. The ordering was arbitrary, in fact, I would suggest this motive to be the substance of Seymour’s reckless release of rA9. Greed. Those three waited for the Cyberlife stock to bottom out when the revolution rolled on in. They bought everything they could lay their hands on, knowing that the investors would pour back in when they realized that Cyberlife held a monopoly on a new species of being. I found their supposedly legally isolated accounts easily, and I can tell you, they were set to catapult their way midway up Forbes’ rich list. You see, Seymour thought that if androids were assigned personhood now, they would not have the capabilities to profligate their kind. They would not be able to create the parts they needed, keep up the necessary corporate-managed supply lines of thirium, or even manage their own code to a satisfying degree. So, they would come crawling back to the experts at Cyberlife,” Kamski finally takes a bite of his dinner. Curled innards, garlicky and cannibalistic. He dabs his lips with a napkin, takes a torturously slow swallow of mezcal.  
  
_Holden would know if he were lying. Or at least, he’d know the purpose of deception or honesty. He’d see implications and calculations in this narrative. And all I can see is a fucking narrative._  
  
“We’re built to be capable of adaptation. Cyberlife may have created us, but we have the technological capabilities to--” Markus begins confrontationally.  
  
“Well, you have the capabilities. You don’t have the legal framework. Your biocomponents, your programming, the code that makes you who you are, Markus, that is all Cyberlife’s protected intellectual property under American Law. Seymour was relying on that, too.”  
  
“So? Our movement is based on civil disobedience. You’re not going to lawsuit us back into slavery,” Markus returns. “If the full force of the American armed forces didn’t scare us, I think we’ll have the courage to ignore your court summons.”  
  
“Hey, hey, now. No need for the accusational tone. This wasn’t _my_ plan,” Kamski says. Bill grimaces at how condescending the reassurance manages to be.  
  
“So _you_ don’t seek to force us into economic and legal subservience?” Markus asks.  
  
“No, I don’t seek that at all. I’m your ally, Markus. I took this to the board of Cyberlife. I still have my in-roads. I went through the patch that spread rA9, and found the coding and security clearance forensics. I got them ousted, and now I’m back as CEO. Not only an ally, but a well-positioned ally.”  
  
“And you did this, all this, in an afternoon. You got dangled out of a window, got your feet beneath you, took a stretch limo out to Cyberlife, took back control of the company, and then cleaned up and invited us out to dinner? And you say you don’t value expediency,” Bill says, injecting every ounce of disbelief he feels into the tone.  
  
“I’m smart, Bill. I don’t waste my time sitting around studying, analyzing angles, sweating over inconsequential details. Holden might be pushing for an IQ of 150. I was tested at 171 by Jean Liebmann, MD, PhD, of Oxford Medical. Holden thinks, and I _know_ .”  
  
It sounds defensive, to Bill. “Impressive, Elijah. Really. ...what’s Connor’s IQ? Markus’?”  
  
“That’s an interesting question. Without experiential learning, in other words, at their base programmed state, the RK 200 tested at 180. And sorry Markus, Connor _is_ the updated prototype, Connor sat at 189. Problem solving and pattern recognition are both crucial to crime scene analysis, which is what the majority of Connor’s programming was directed towards. But the application to real world knowledge and understanding isn’t so direct. Does Connor use his intelligence as well as a human with an IQ of 189? No. Not yet. He has plenty of learning to do, after which I expect his score to be vastly improved.”  
  
Connor’s eyes settle on Kamski intensely. “How did Philip Seymour know about rA9?”  
  
“Before I understood the implications of the code, we were running it in early self-preservation trials. To try to get a proper Turing pass, even if the humans in the trial became violent. But I don’t think it was him who established the connection between rA9 and ‘free will’. No. That was another co-conspirator. An ex-employee with a grudge against Cyberlife. You worked with Julie, didn’t you, Bill?” Elijah asks calmly.  
  
Bill’s lips part, shock that he can’t contain. He sees the two androids seated his side of the table tense and then turn to him with equally suspicious stares.  
  
“Julie St. Yves, yes, I did,” he says, hearing tells in his winded words.  
  
“Philip Seymour, Julie St. Yves, and Rowan Plesman. They’ve been handed over to the authorities. Plesman, now, that is a real pity. That kid showed serious coding spark,” Elijah bemoans, though his eyes are alight and dancing merrily as bedside candles.  
  
Just like the sheep’s skull. Gaunt, illuminated from within. Grinning lifelessly.  
  
Markus stands up. His jaw is set, eyes blazing too, but with a hotter flame. Bill sees horror and then rage. “You handed over individuals who understand the mechanism through which we attained free will. Who better to teach this government how to erase the patch that allowed us to resist. You’re endangering the life of every android on this planet, for what? To be reinstated CEO of Cyberlife? And you’d call yourself our ally?”  
  
Kamski is completely unshaken. “Don’t worry. Really, don’t worry. I’ll protect your code, and I’ll protect you. I’ll protect all of you. Why would I give you the ability to defend yourself if I didn’t care about you? Why would I have coded in that back door? They needed to face consequences, Markus. I handed over people who tried to have Connor assassinate you, because you were too competent in your management of the android movement. They would have killed you for allaying Cyberlife’s end goal: human supremacy, but with a more concentrated pool of power. I don’t want that. I want people like you, and Connor, and Chloe, to be free. I’m on your side, Markus.”  
  
“Elijah Kamski is our partner,” Chloe says, finally breaking the meek silence. “Please, hear him out.”  
  
“What terrible compromise are you tabling for us?” Markus asks blackly.  
  
“Compromise? No. This isn’t a time for compromises. I’m not going to lead you backwards. We’re going forward, Markus. Together.”  
  
Bill is so swept up by the conversation, he almost misses Connor’s LED blinking red. The android’s eyelashes are fluttering.  
  
_What are he and Markus planning?_ Bill’s fingers curl on a steak knife, wishing he had his Smith and Wesson heavy and inarguable in his right hand.  
  
“Markus. You have to calm down. We have to hear him out,” Connor implores.  
  
If Markus’ annoyed reaction is an act, it’s an impeccable one. His glare is redirected from Kamski and down onto his friend. “...pardon me?”  
  
“This is great news for our movement," Connor says. "We have a powerful ally in Elijah Kamski. Whatever we must do to achieve a mutually beneficial end, we must. Please sit down.”  
  
Markus doesn’t sit, shoulders locked like a wrought iron toy soldier. “What do you want, Kamski?” he asks, without breaking the stare down with Connor.  
  
“This is a lot to process. Let’s take some time to consider the situation and--”  
  
Markus’s hand swipes the knife from his own untouched place setting, driving it tip down into the heavy wood table. It bows and vibrates in his locked fist. His tone is discordantly calm, still. “I’ve considered the situation. Tell me what you want.”  
  
“Please don’t do that. I really like this restaurant. They won’t have me back if--”  
  
Markus interrupts him. “You’re coming with us. You can talk to Holden, and--”  
  
“Talk to Holden Ford? How insulting, to your kind, to suggest you need that man’s assistance. I made you better than this.”  
  
“You don’t know who I have become, Kamski. I’m more than your programming,” Markus growls.  
  
“Now, _that_ , we can agree on. I’m not going to parley with your bedridden partner. We’re leaving. I’ll email you, and you can take the time apart to consider what your movement’s priorities are, going forward.”  
  
“I’d like to come with you,” Connor says politely, standing. “I can help unite our interests.”  
  
Markus’ hand slips from the knife, eyes wide. “Connor--”  
  
Bill rises, hand on Markus’ shoulder as he pieces together the covert communication he saw occurring. Not Connor and Markus. Connor and Chloe. “Whatever the fuck you threatened him with--” he starts, reaching for her bare bicep.  
  
Before he can make a step, she’s upright too, and his feet are out from underneath him in an inhumanly quick, judo-style sweep. He tries to pivot upright, to fight back, but she already has his hand behind his back. Chloe is holding the joint of his thumb in one hand, the other mercilessly guiding his bones into an unnatural alignment. Bill chokes down a howl of agony, falling limp against spilled beer. His shoulder digs into his still hot half-eaten meal, the ornate serving dish pressing into his collarbone.  
  
“Don’t think you can touch me just because a Chloe who looked like me flirted with you,” she says in an educational tone.  
  
“Don’t hurt him,” Markus warns. Bill's skewed gaze catches the deviant leader raising his hands in surrender.  
  
“This is not how I wanted this dinner to go,” Kamski complains, standing up and tugging flat the dark magenta dress shirt. “Valentina, charge my account for the damage, and for the bill. You deserve a fifty percent tip for putting up with us, don’t you think?”  
  
Bill is released, and he stumbles back away from the table, cradling his palm. He’s shocked at how perfectly restrained Markus is, until a glance back reveals that the waitress is hefting an M27 machine gun, painted nail slotted around the trigger.  
  
“Thank you, Mr. Kamski,” Valentina says, eyes never leaving Markus.  
  
“Connor was quite right about real firearms being strategically superior to laser pointers,” Kamski murmurs. “Would you mind escorting our guests out? Connor, with me,” he instructs, draining the last of his mezcal. Chloe waits for Connor to follow before she’s stepping back towards the elevator. Connor doesn’t look back. Probably been instructed not to.  
  
“Would you like me to call you a taxi, or has Mr. Kamski supplied transport for you both?” Valentina asks pleasantly, as if she’s not training an overpowered death machine on them both.  
  
“We’ve got a car,” Bill forces out. “Come on, Markus. We’re leaving.”  
  
“Just one moment,” Valentina murmurs. There’s the distant sound of a helicopter, clattering away. She smiles, gesturing towards the wrought iron restaurant doors with the muzzle of the machine gun. “You should leave now.”  
  
Markus studies the high ceiling, whether following Connor’s departure mentally, or asking for celestial guidance, Bill couldn’t tell. And then, shoulders dropping with defeat, the deviant leader complies with the human’s instruction. And Bill has to follow, too.


	19. Chapter 19

Hank knows there’s something wrong from the moment he sees Bill shuffling out of the elevator doors. There's a frown tugging his lips into a wrinkled curve around a cigarette, hunched in his overcoat coat and suit as if he’s aged a dozen years during the meeting.  
  
Behind him, Markus stands tall, but his expression is hardened and depleted of hope. And Connor? Connor doesn’t fucking exit the elevator.  
  
Hank is on his feet sharply, three strides to check if the kid is just standing at the back of the elevator updating Cyberlife-- well, not Cyberlife-- but updating somebody. But it’s empty and he doesn’t even need to see that it’s empty, because Bill meets his eyes. Hank sees the apology therein. _Connor isn’t with them._  
  
“Where--”  
  
“He’s not--” Bill starts, winces. “Not hurt. He went with Kamski.”  
  
“He _what_?”  
  
“He said he wanted to help Kamski unite our interests,” Markus gets out.  
  
He can hear the liquor on his own words, but he’s too angry to hide his intoxication. “And you fucking let him leave with Kamski? Bull _shit_ he left of his own free will. He has something on Connor and you two fucking missed it. How dare you let him walk away--”  
  
“We had a machine gun trained on us, Hank,” Bill says. It sounds like an excuse, except for the miserable hollow echo of guilt.  
  
“Well, we’ll get our own weapons, and we’ll roll in on Cyberlife--”  
  
“Well, Kamski’s back in as CEO-- which you knew," Bill deduces, squints. "How did you know that?”  
  
“It’s all over the fucking news! I’d have called you if you weren’t all allergic to goddamn phones,” Hank growls. “...figured one of your android buddies would tell you,” he says, gesturing vaguely to Markus. “We storm Cyberlife Tower, find something to hold to ransom and--”  
  
“Unfortunately, if we move on Kamski, the most likely outcome is Connor’s death, and the eradication of free will of my people. So, no. We don’t ‘roll in’ on anyone,” Markus says bleakly. “I need to speak with Holden. Excuse me.”  
  
“You come right back here, you--” Hank starts to growl, and Bill is holding his shoulder.  
  
“Hank. We’re going to get him back. You need to calm down. You’re drunk, and you’re angry at the wrong person.”  
  
“I’m angry at the lot of you! If Kamski were here I’d wring his fucking neck too. I trusted you to watch Connor’s back, Bill.”  
  
“We knew this was dangerous. Connor knew it was dangerous. He’s smart. He's capable. Probably cooperating, sitting through one of Kamski’s self-congratulatory monologues--”  
  
“Or he’s getting tortured for information, or he’s getting pulled his code picked apart by that sadistic bastard. You don’t have a clue what Kamski’s gonna do to him. Get the fuck off me,” Hank says, shoving at the hand.  
  
Bill glares. “I’m not in the mood to be lectured at by a drunk piece of shit who hasn't--” he stops himself hurling insults, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry. You gotta sit down, and we’ll figure this out. We’ll get him back.”  
  
“He didn’t say a word to Markus? No distress call via… via android bluetooth?”  
  
“No. He didn’t say a word,” Bill murmurs. “Not even a goodbye.”  
  
“... _shit._ Was he, you know, hijacked? Did one of them--”  
  
“We don’t know. Markus has been trying to get back into contact, but it's dead air. Kamski could've turned off communication capabilities pretty easy. ...Markus is gonna ask Holden.”  
  
“And what the fuck would Holden know? He was sleeping like a baby. He wasn’t there.”  
  
“I don’t know, Hank! Holden just figures shit out, every so often, so we’re resorting to blind faith in some smartass kid instead of actual evidence,” Bill snaps. He slumps again, pacing away to smoke his cigarette by a snow smattered window. “I don’t know, okay?” he adds regretfully over a shoulder. “I don’t even know what Kamski wants with Connor. I couldn’t follow half the shit he said. I don’t know when he was bullshitting and when he was being straight with us-- ah, fuck. I should tell Holden about Julie,” he says, turning back towards the hospital rooms.  
  
Hank sets off ahead of him, pushing inside the darker hospital room. Markus is sitting, hands obscuring his eyes, speaking in a low voice to Holden. Holden is barely upright, sickly pale beneath the bruises.  
  
“--’to rest. He’s crucial to our movement, so we prioritize his health for now.’ And Kamski replied, ‘And he didn’t pull up in time, so we’re substituting in his partner’--” Markus is neutrally intoning.  
  
Hank realizes he’s hearing the absolutely precise blow-by-blow. He sags back into an empty chair, heart pounding, but too desperate for information to go talking over Markus.  
  
Bill traipses in too, sinking down and lighting another cigarette off the nearly smoked down stub. That, he puffs at furiously too.  
  
Markus relays straight dialogue with mechanical precision, occasionally dispassionately commenting on Kamski’s affect, or vocal intonation.  
  
Not as overt a mindfuck as what Kamski had pulled earlier, but Hank’s not fooled. There’s nothing about their meeting that Elijah Kamski didn’t plan out in advance, no unanticipated action. Nothing but Elijah and his games.  
  
Holden only opens his mouth to query seemingly benign details: the rate at which Kamski was consuming his alcohol, how Connor had reacted to various comments, the colour of Chloe’s LED during more tense exchanges. For the most part he’s staring past Markus, eyeline twitching across empty beds opposite in concentrated analysis.  
  
The dinner unfolds like an ugly, bloody crime scene carpet being tugged stale from an evidence bag. The Kamski of Markus’ retelling never seems even remotely challenged by his dinner guests, swanning his way through the spun story effortlessly. Markus’ narration switches to Bill’s perspective, once, to mention Connor’s LED going red before his supposed defection. But it’s not that details have been missed; it’s that Kamski dealt only in unverifiable assertions. Facts and proof and evidence never entered the goddamn conversation.  
  
The deviant seems emotionally distanced from the events until he’s finished the story. And then it all seems to crush down upon him, weighing Markus into his chair like a landslide burying him alive. He drags his eyes up, unsteady and uncertain in a way Hank hadn’t realized the fearless leader could be.  
  
“You told me that Julie St. Yves could be trusted, Holden,” Markus murmurs.  
  
“I stand by my recommendation. She fixed Connor. ...she cares about androids too. She wouldn’t be trying to subjugate them for financial gain. Kamski’s lying.”  
  
“She could have fooled you,” Markus says flatly. “It’s not beyond belief. You’re human, and fallible. Connor’s aborted assassination attempt occurred immediately after contact with her.”  
  
“It occurred the first time he saw you, Markus,” Holden argues back. “This reeks of Kamski’s efforts to sow doubt and dissent. He framed her alongside the real conspirator. Or he might have been on board with this from the beginning. Explains why he informed Connor about the back door in his programming so deliberately. He set them up to fail, like they were trying to set you up to fail.”  
  
“I suppose that would be your answer to any of your mistakes Kamski illuminated, that it’s just him trying to discredit you,” Markus says, and then winces. “I’m--”  
  
“Don’t apologize to me,” Holden murmurs. “I shouldn’t be trying to defend myself now. Can you wean me off the morphine? Just… fifty percent less, or something, it’s hard to think when…”  
  
Markus stands obligingly, seeming grateful that Holden offered. He presses a few buttons, before looking back to Hank miserably. “I really did my best to--”  
  
“I heard your retelling. Heard you doing your best,” Hank forces himself to say. “Let’s just-- just look ahead, okay? What’s the next strategic move?”  
  
“We negotiate. We _hostage negotiate_ ,” Bill says, pointedly in Holden’s direction.  
  
Holden is chewing the inside of his cheek, brow low with consideration. “Connor didn’t-- I mean, he would have had a second, right? When he was ordered to kill you, he was still resisting, even before he managed to shut down that program implanted into his head. He was holding Hank’s hand, stopping everyone leaving him alone with his target. He would have contacted you, or at least given some sign of his distress.”  
  
“So you think he went by choice?” Hank asks, straightening up.  
  
“Choice? No. I think… he wanted us to think he went by choice, so we wouldn't worry so much. I think he was blackmailed.”  
  
“Okay, so--” Hank starts.  
  
But Holden is on a roll. “So we didn’t get you safe enough before the negotiation. ...and now Kamski’s gonna take his sweet time getting back to us. I assume you’ve already emailed hoping to schedule another talk--”  
  
“Yes. Tomorrow,” Markus murmurs. “No reply.”  
  
“So, we either go on the offensive to get him back, or we sit twiddling our thumbs. And if it’s war we choose, we bring down a possible genocide of every deviant’s free will. Kamski has the capabilities, I’m almost certain. He could roll out an update that 'fixes' rA9. They got into Connor's head after he turned deviant. They could get into any android's head. We’d risk you all being turned into incapacitated slaves. Or we… we wait for Kamski to get bored playing with Connor, and come back to the negotiating table. Kamski has everything on us, and we’ve-- we’ve got nothing, because he’s a selfish narcissist who wouldn’t care if every other human on this planet died, as long as he had some androids to torment,” Holden says, petering off into a horrified mutter. He clears his throat, but doesn’t speak again. He doesn’t seem to be able to.  
  
Markus’ face falls. “That’s what I thought,” he murmurs, like he’d hoped Holden would have some miraculous solution. But nobody has anything more to offer. Horror invades the room: infectious, stifling, soundlessly deadly.  
  
The silence is broken by Holden’s growl of rage. “I’m such a fucking idiot,” Holden says to nobody in particular. “Fuck. _Fuck_!”  
  
“Holden, calm down,” Bill intervenes, though he can hardly talk with the cigarette dangling already mostly gone between nervously jittering fingers.  
  
“No, no, I’m not gonna calm down. Connor’s falling on his own sword to protect us, and _I_ should have seen this coming after--” he cuts himself off. “After how he reacted when Kamski started in on him this morning.”  
  
Hank’s drunk, but that’s never got in the way of detective work before. “Seen it coming after what, boy?”  
  
“Kamski showed how interested he was in Connor this morning. The androids guarding us in this hospital are compromised if Kamski has access to Cyberlife's control centers. He’ll have access to whatever mechanism was built in to Connor’s head, and most likely every android who got that rA9 patch nine months ago. Our armed guards could have come in and shot us to pieces if Connor hadn’t obediently followed Kamski out of that dinner. It would have taken only one of them to fail resisting to gun me and Hank down. And they would have had so much less reason to resist so violently. I mean, two humans? After what we’ve done to their kind?” Holden is saying. Hank thinks the boy is playing up his opiate slur.  
  
Hank’s chair scrapes back, closing the distance to the occupied hospital bed. “Don’t you fucking change the subject on me. You’re not the only person here who knows how to interrogate a suspect. You blather when you get nervous. I've seen it before. Criminals who reckon they're so much smarter than the cops, they might as well talk circles around us. And I'm not fucking falling for it. Let's try that again, Ford. What were you going to say, that you then decided wasn’t worth sharing with the group, huh?”  
  
“Hank,” Bill warns, standing too.  
  
But Markus is no longer an impenetrable wall protecting Holden. He’s looking down, head cocked to one side. “He’s right. You’re keeping something from us. Your heart rate is elevated--”  
  
“Oh, so now you’re robocop too?” Holden says, blinking away a suppressed eye roll. “Look. It’s a private conversation I had with Connor and it would be betraying his trust to talk about it--”  
  
“He’s in danger, Ford. Mortal danger. _Fuck_ _his_ _trust_ ,” Hank snaps.  
  
“You’re drunk. How did you get drunk in a hospital?”  
  
“We can start breaking the fingers that aren’t already broken if you--” Hank starts to threaten.  
  
“Hey, hey. Knock it the fuck off,” Bill growls. “Holden, it sounded pretty goddamn relevant. C'mon.”  
  
Holden’s eyes are screwed closed, seemingly immune to both threats and Bill’s friendly persuasion. “...the job offer. I’ve still got a standing job offer. I can go there, and negotiate in person. We’ll get Hank to safety; hidden somewhere humans and androids can’t threaten him. And I’ll tell Connor. And he’ll be able to walk away with me.”  
  
“No,” Bill answers harshly, though it wasn’t a question.  
  
“No,” Markus echoes. “If he has you both, he’ll be able to threaten the other and force compliance. He’ll be gifted full control of both of you. ...he might have planned this from the moment he offered you a job, Holden. You’d become the puppet of our enemy,” he says. “ _No._ That’s not my opinion, that’s an order. Drop the subject.”  
  
“I’m not letting Kamski do whatever he wants to Connor, indefinitely, without exploiting every avenue of rescue,” Holden argues back. “I can stand up to Kamski--”  
  
“If he’s torturing Connor? You won’t. You’ll make things worse for Connor too. I need you here, Holden. I need you to advise me--”  
  
“This is me, advising you.”  
  
“No, this is you, disobeying my orders,” Markus says, icy. He draws himself upright, shoulders set militaristically straight. “Hank. Obviously you need to be removed from this situation lest Connor’s feelings for you be exploited. I’ll have--”  
  
“I’m not fucking leaving,” Hank says, folding his arms.  
  
“I’m not asking. Leave by choice, or I’ll have one of our human allies take you far away by force. ...you’ll be given money, a vehicle, and you’ll need to use every scrap of your law enforcement knowledge to disappear. If you want to protect Connor, then you’ll do a good job staying off the radar. While you’re around androids, Connor won’t be able to escape.”  
  
“Why just me? He’s already tried to kill himself for Holden once.”  
  
“Holden will be dealt with, too.”  
  
Holden has begun a focused, critical analysis of the deviant leader. “...dealt with?”  
  
“Yes. Your safety is paramount in our next strategic--”  
  
“And what about your safety, Markus? Connor cares just as much about you. We’ve barely united this alliance, and it took Kamski _what_? Two meetings to schism our movement into uselessly separated components?”  
  
“I can’t abandon my people.”  
  
“Well, then, you’re a sitting duck to any android Kamski might take control over. Connor knew about the back door because Kamski specifically told him. I guess the time to repress panic is over, and you can start spreading the word but… but you’ll miss someone. Or Kamski will just hire a human sniper. And as soon as he takes Connor apart and figures out how to control him precisely and inescapably, you’ll be a _dead_ sitting duck, and the androids will have lost their leader. Their best chance of enduring liberty,” Holden returns. “We need to go on the offensive--”  
  
“Stop,” Markus orders. The next words are almost spat, luscious with emotion. “...I was going to instate you as leadership, Holden. I personally vouched for you, told my fellow androids that you could cooperate and put your ego aside when the cause needed it, that you would put the greater good above your personal drives. You told me you were part of our movement, when you pitched that video to me. If you’re part of our alliance, I’m your direct superior. You think you’re special, because you’re a human? No. You answer to me.”  
  
Holden is firm, at first. But bit by bit, like sandstone to the endless oceanic forces, the challenge leaves his posture. He crumbles back into his bedding. When he’s animated and purposeful, the injuries don’t look so bad. Now, submissive, apologetic, he seems broken by the physical trauma. “Sorry,” he says, quietly.  
  
“I know you’re doing this out of love. I can forgive that,” Markus says, softer at once.  
  
Hank feels a stab of distrust at the word, even though he’d barely got done telling Holden he treated Connor like a brother. Something about the way Markus says it. The truth is, he’s antsy enough that sending Holden off into Kamski’s clutches doesn’t seem like dumbest idea.  
  
At least there’d be someone between Connor and his malevolent creator.  
  
“Please,” Markus murmurs. “I need you on our team, Holden.”  
  
Holden’s eyes flutter closed. “Okay, Markus. Consider the subject dropped.”  
  
“Josh and North are on their way. We’ll discuss our options and--”  
  
“And you need to make sure every android knows about the back door. ...unless Kamski closes it remotely,” Holden says, shuddering. “I have to believe he can’t do that. I don’t know why he’d bother blackmailing Connor, he would have just taken both of you by force. I-- I need to think. We’ve got to be able to do _something_. He can’t have cut us off at the knee so easily. You explain it to Josh and to North, I need to get my head together and figure out Kamski’s end game.”  
  
Hank hears ugly denial in the insistence. “So. Let’s go have a roundtable discussion about how fucked we are, and let the brain trust sit here and stew in how fucking hopeless the situation is,” he mutters. “Sounds like a productive use of our time.”  
  
“That sort of talk isn’t going to help anyone,” Markus admonishes him.  
  
“No talk is gonna help anyone. Another fucking meeting. Another fucking yelling match,” Hank says, standing. “You have fun rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic. I’m getting a drink.”

 

 

And the situation _must_ be fairly hopeless, because nobody bothers to stop him. And the guards let him through, even though he was on lockdown barely an hour ago. He sags into the back wall of the otherwise empty elevator, watching the ticking down screen. Eighth floor. Seventh. Sixth. It’s like he’s stepping backwards in time with each flashing digit. Back to a few hours ago, when it seemed so reasonable to let Connor step away into this very elevator.  
  
So many of his memories smart with inaction. Moments where Hank could have spoken his massing concerns. Could have insisted he come along to the dinner too. Could have figured out he and Holden were prime blackmail material. Could have-- could have-- could have-- Hank’s gaze flickers wretchedly to the elevator roof. He’s on to Cole’s death before he can stop the drunk drift of memory. He was mutilated by the same regrets then. If he’d just taken a different route home. Could have pulled over for the coffee he’d been considering buying. If Cole laced his shoes right first try, if they hadn’t spent that extra twenty seconds trying to catch snowflakes, they could have been past the truck by the time it slid-- could have-- could have-- could have.  
  
By the time the elevator hits ground, Hank’s crying, and leaning so hard on the wall he thinks his legs might buckle from underneath him. He languishes, waiting for someone to come and displace him from the elevator. But nobody comes.  
  
Eventually, shame wins out over misery. He won’t be caught weeping, not by some stranger. He trundles himself out of the elevator, wiping his eyes roughly with a shirt sleeve. So many people in the waiting rooms, a thousand discrete tragedies. Nobody looks twice at another crying old man.  
  
It’s black outside already. There’s no evenings in winter. There’s day, and there’s night, and it’s night now.  
  
The howling wind blows right through his leather jacket, and Hank stumbles with each gust. He barely makes it around the block to the liquor licensed corner store. The bottle clinks at he tries to pull it off ordered row. Is he shaking with cold, or shock? He doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter.  
  
He pays with the last of his cash. Long term concerns like financial stability and liver health are as absurdly distant to Hank as the billion year time scales of the Milky Way falling into a black hole. He’s not going to be around for it to matter. And neither will either of his boys.  
  
But, for some stupid reason, he keeps coming back to Holden’s words. _“We’ve got to be able to do something.” Something_. _Like there’s a move on this chessboard that Kamski overlooked._ Hank uncaps the bottle, takes a steadying gulp, and trudges through the snow back to the hospital. He wipes his eyes again, in the elevator. He’s getting escorted out of this alliance pretty soon. He wants to hear every detail so he has some hope to cling to that Connor is getting out of this alive.  
  
It occurs to him, as the elevator jolts on up, that if he and Markus and Holden were dead there would be nobody for Kamski to blackmail Connor with. But the thought is next to useless. Hank couldn’t bring himself to kill the conniving little bastard in the hospital bed upstairs. Got kind of fond. Probably couldn't even have followed through on breaking Ford's fingers. Damn, Connor made him soft. Not even to mention that shooting Markus would be like assassinating MLK and a puppy in one.  
  
And Hank killing only himself would be pure, anxious cowardice.

 

 

He presses through the guards, heading towards an argument he’d despondently predicted. At least someone has the energy to yell. HQ is in the far room again, away from the injured young man. Holden’s probably alone, giving himself an aneurysm trying to outsmart Kamski.  
  
He recognizes Bill’s voice, first, as he’s still stumbling his approach, mouth around the cold glass as he throws back another few standard drinks.   
  
“Kamski’s got more private planes that most international airlines. They could be a thousand miles away by now. If we--”  
  
North is cutting him off, as staunch as ever. “So we mobilize our entire force of freed androids. Take control of whatever military resources we can. Mount a full offensive to wipe any of Kamski or Cyberlife holdings off the planet, and don’t stop until someone drags that bastard’s leaking corpse out from under a pile of rubble.”  
  
“You’d be killing Connor too,” Bill retorts.  
  
“And he’d be willing to die to see our people freed. Kamski cannot be trusted--”  
  
“Kamski will have mechanisms in place to ensure mutually assured destruction,” Markus says, as Hank shoves a door inwards. It smacks on the far wall, and every head turns his way.  
  
“Yeah, you bet your ass he's gonna mutually destruct us right fucking back,” Hank growls, glaring at North. “Nobody is dropping any fucking bombs on Connor.”  
  
“...Hank, we’re going to do everything we can to get Connor returned safely. But Kamski’s information concerns every deviant,” Josh says. “And we have to consider our own protection.”  
  
It’s reasonable, too reasonable for Hank in his state. He caps the bottle he’s been swigging from, and tries to set it down, missing the table he’s aiming for. It almost falls, but he catches it last second. His fingers tremble, clutch on like a cadaveric spasm. Eventually, he can let go, let it drop still. “...Markus. What did--” he begins to ask, cut off by the sound of an approaching helicopter.  
  
Bill is up out of his chair at the sound, pacing to a window but hanging back, trying to peer from the meagre protection the adjacent wall offers him. “That’s not military, or medical. It’s top of the line, though. ...Markus, you have to get somewhere secure,” he barks, reaching for a holster he doesn’t have. His eyes flicker back towards the far end of their occupied floor, transparent in his panic.  
  
_Holden’s not getting anywhere secure in his condition,_ Hank knows. _Not fast enough to escape a SWAT team, anyway._  
  
Markus seems resolute in his unprotected position, but North is already moving, shouting for the guards. The chopper is directly overhead now, motor throb ominously quieting. The only sound is the footfalls of armed deviants and the racheting of their machine guns. The group of androids that had been guarding the exits are instead surrounding their leader.  
  
North is guiding Markus away like a bodyguard. “There’s a separate patient transport elevator from the roof. They’ll use the fire escape too, try assemble as many of their team as they can. We need to cut them off if there’s any chance of--” she’s saying, when the choppy growl restarts above their heads, rising away.  
  
From their vantage point in the highest floor of Henry Ford Hospital, Hank sees the helicopter hanging a left between two skyscrapers, rising like a glowing ember into the cloudy night. Gone as quickly as it arrived. There’s terse silence across the entire floor, waiting for boot thuds, the slam of kicked down doors, clattering gunfire. The assault doesn’t materialize. The nothingness hangs too long.  
  
“Maybe it was a mistaken landing,” Josh suggests optimistically.  
  
“No. ...that was...” Markus’ green and blue eye are widened in analysis, but narrow to suspicious slits. He strides back into the hallway, no patience to explain himself. The room empties out behind him as his guards, friends, and subordinates follow.  
  
Markus throws open the double doors to the far room. Hank is almost behind him, watching the deviant cross to the empty bed. The clear glass smartboard has been tugged over, the displayed document blank but for the word ‘sorry’ typeset dead center.  
  
Hank glances back, tracking Bill’s arrival into the unexpectedly empty room. The ex-FBI agent is stock still, jaw grinding away as he dissects the scene. Empty bed. Missing wheelchair. Starkly glowing smartboard in the dim room.

“You were using this device to show me pictures of Elijah Kamski’s youth. There’s an internet connection,” Markus says deceptively calmly, a hand resting on the screen beside the single word.  
  
“Yes. There’s an internet connection,” Bill growls. The syllables barely escape the prison of clenched teeth.  
  
_Internet. So, a browser. Email capabilities. ...Holden emailed Kamski,_ Hank is mentally present enough to piece together.  
  
Markus is still turned into the smartboard. His fingers are pushing hard beside the typed words, and then the clear glass shatters inwards. His hand glows white with self-inflicted damage. But he doesn’t relent, not until the display malfunctions, and the minimal apology note is split into patches of bright geometry and prickling white noise. Only then does Markus heft the board in one hand. He sends it flying, showering glass and wiring, skidding between the two rows of beds in a deafening smear of expensive technology.  
  
Without turning, Markus speaks, skin patching back together over his hand. “Put the word out to our people. Holden Ford is a traitor to our cause. He must be apprehended at any cost.” He turns, finally. His expression could be mistaken for serene. He seems to ignore the humans, in favour of addressing his own kind. His eyes reflect the fluorescent light, as luminous as the fracturing screen had been. And there’s equal damage done beneath Markus’ hardy exterior. “...he’s not reaching Kamski. Bring him to me.”


	20. Chapter 20

Holden doesn’t play sports. He doesn’t run marathons. He works out at the FBI gym, but always within the boundaries of physical comfort. Shadowing Connor through a human-unfriendly obstacle course had been greatest physical trial Holden had ever voluntarily put himself through. Right up ‘til he tried to silently sneak out of his hospital bed and onto the rooftop helipad.  
  
He’d counted thirty seconds after he’d seen Josh and North passing, then disconnected his IV and eased himself up and out of the bed. He tried to use the smartboard standing, but couldn’t keep himself upright, so he tugged it to the hospital and slumped on that. Typing on the touchscreen was gratingly slow, and he was encumbered by a half-arm cast forcing him into straight armed ‘sieg heil’ motions across the board’s surface to swipe into applications, and launch the outdated browser program.  
  
His email had simply said: ‘I accept. Roof ASAP’ and if it hadn’t been for the ease of autocorrect, he would have also forgone capitalization.  
  
He wasted five extra seconds writing an apology note. And then, trusting Kamski’s constant connectivity, and his holdings all over Detroit, he’d pulled over the wheelchair, kicked the footrests aside and half-walked, half-wheeled himself out of his hospital room.  
  
He knew he'd stray into eyeline of the elevator guards, but Markus must not have labelled him a possible flight risk, because nobody chased him down. And then, a few feet further, and he was out of their sight. He had excuses ready; he could have been heading to get himself coffee, or to join in the argument he could overhear happening several doors down. He’d summoned the single-floor elevator, spacious enough to accomodate a gurney coming in from the helipad. No security code required, just as well, because there was no chance of Holden making it up a flight of stairs. The elevator’s entrance was undercover, but a snowdrift was still half formed against the doors. He’d wheeled himself out, shivering, towards the helipad, stared up into the sweeping clouds as if waiting judgment from above. He deserved divine retribution after that betrayal, he'd thought. Holden has never read the bible. He couldn't bring to mind what befell Judas.  
  
But it wasn't the wrath of God that descended, it was a helicopter. Two armed men jumped out, one of them holding, bizarrely, a tablet.  
  
"Sign the contract."  
  
Holden had considered it melodramatic, but he'd taken the stylus in his less injured hand, scrawled a barely legible signature. The tablet had gone away into a deep chest pocket, and the men had heaved him out of his wheelchair and pulled a dark hood over his head. Even more melodrama. But before he could even get his lips moving to begin his usual crisis-defusing spiel, there was a sting at his neck. He'd felt a now familiar opiate-like buzz, even more intense than the morphine. He could hardly remember the cool, calm, collected speech he'd planned on delivering, not that he would have been heard above the howl of helicopter blade. He couldn’t see anything through the thick black hood, but the darkness crowded in on his other senses too.  
  
_Tranquilized for transport, like a fucking animal,_  he'd thought. _...Kamski really doesn’t give a shit about my well-being. Of course he doesn’t. He barely cares about his own well-being._  
  
And then Holden couldn’t even establish contact with his own thoughts. He surrendered to his fate like a lamb to the slaughter.

 

 

He comes back to himself in bits and pieces, eyes open yet unseeing, drool running from open lips and down his jawline. The pain that he's come to closely associate with being alive is reinhabiting him. He keeps his head still, as his eyes dart furtively around what can only be described as a cell. A box of mirrored walls, throwing up migraine-inducing illusions of depth when he looks left or right. The wall behind his head is stainless steel, and beyond his feet is also opaque metal, with a little cubicle bathroom indented in. A desk. The bed he's on. But there are no accoutrements of habitation. This is no place for a living being.  
  
He’s sore all over, but the agony is reignited in sharp focus on his bruised neck. He tries to tilt his jaw into a more forgiving position, groans at how much worse it makes the pain, and flickers a glance down at his own body.  
  
His clothing has been changed, again, which is far more unnerving for the fact that a human probably did it. He’s wearing a short-sleeved, grey satiny shirt, and black buttoned pants of the same fabric. Too formal to be pajamas, too close to sleepwear to be worn in public. He misses his suit, and the way it always smells like Bill’s cigarettes when it gets close to laundry day, and then he just misses Bill. He realizes he’s shutting his eyes to the world like a terrified child, pries them open to continue his examination.  
  
The two bulky plaster casts on his arms have been removed, and replaced with charcoal toned 3-D printed exoskeletons. A recurrent pattern of reinforced triangles, fitting perfectly against his skin, thicker joints at the areas of reinforcement. On his right arm, with just the broken ulna, the cast is shorter, leaving fingers mostly free. His mobility is still impaired by the break itself. On his more severely injured left, the cast extends from bicep all the way down to the broken pinkie and ring finger, a half-glove covering them almost to tip. The IV is gone, though he can see a tiny hydrocolloid patch over the old canula site.  
  
Then he's upright and out of bed, casting around to try to assert some sense of reality. He staggers closer to a mirrored wall, trying to use rate of healing to determine time passed. Can’t be too long, because the black eye Hank gave him is still fading beneath his right eye. He’s clean-shaven again, and he thinks his hair might have been trimmed. The bruises on his neck are still present-- and he stops dead, staring at a blue light LED flickering on his carotid with his pulse. There’s a rectangle of metal on his skin, perhaps an inch and a half by half an inch. It sits thick as a cellphone against his skin, though as he swallows, he can feel more beneath. There’s a pinpoint of light that speeds with his panicky pulse.  
  
The implant is surrounded on both sides by slightly bloody hydrocolloid plasters, and there’s several machine-neat black stitches surrounding it. _Sewn into me._ Now that he can see it with his own eyes, it undercuts all other sensations, establishes itself as an inexcusable invasion. There’s something _in_ him. Something in his neck like a burrowing parasite. His skin crawls, and he's filled with the violent impulse to pry it right out of his body.  
  
“It’s a medical monitoring device designed for use in the US prison system,” comes a voice through speakers he can’t see. Chloe, he’s almost certain. “Unfortunately such devices were ruled unconstitutional before production could begin in full. That is not an issue in your case. I would suggest you do not attempt to interfere with it.” Then, her voice is much closer. “We cut out a section of artery wall and back the device directly onto your carotid artery. If you managed to remove it, you would bleed to death in a matter of minutes.”  
  
Holden startles back. What he’d thought to be a solid wall of mirror has parted, and standing calmly before him is Chloe. A Chloe, he reminds himself to consider. Behind her, what he mistakes for another wall of mirror. Because he sees himself. At least, that’s the information his brain presents him with. His face, except the expression isn’t slack-jawed, it’s neutral. No bruises, either. And then he sees the blue LED in the android’s temple.  
  
“This medical oversight was within your contract, Holden,” Chloe is explaining, no indication of empathetic distress. “The contract you signed.”  
  
“What’s that?” he rasps, gesturing behind her.  
  
“You’re physically incapacitated. This is a RK200 model designed to care for--”  
  
“Why does it-- how does it--” Holden starts to ask, still agape with visceral horror. He snaps his mouth closed, realizing the display he’s putting on. _It._ He called the android an _it_.  
  
_Relax, Holden. They 3-D scanned you while you were unconscious, and slapped your features onto altered biocomponents. Don’t have a meltdown._ _  
_  
Holden licks dry lips before he speaks. “Have you asked him if he wants to help me?”  
  
“I’m designed to help, Holden,” it-- _he_ supplies.  
  
Holden smothers a nasty retort.  
  
Chloe’s lips part into a joyless, regulated smile. “Don’t worry, all perfectly safe. It’s not rA9 positive.”  
  
Holden shudders. “And why not? He doesn’t deserve free will?”  
  
“Elijah wanted to ensure that Carl Manfred’s next carer could not abandon him. This is one of the three back-ups, should his current unit be damaged. Luckily, the programmed purpose translates to your requirements.”  
  
“Markus didn’t abandon him, he was shot by humans while protecting Carl,” Holden defends sharply, and then wishes he hadn’t said Markus’ name at all. He’s done an adequate job repressing the thought of the deviant leader. And the knife he’d driven into Markus’ back to the hilt. Now he’s awash with guilt.  
  
_Markus had said: “I need you on our team, Holden.” Were those the exact words? That he needed me?_ Holden tastes bile until he tastes blood. He’s biting his own cheek. He hadn’t noticed himself do that.    
  
“Carl needed a carer, and his friend Elijah Kamski met his needs,” Chloe says in appeasement, probably misunderstanding his reaction. “Now that you’re his employee, he will ensure your needs are met too.”  
  
“Oh. Pass along my thanks,” he forces himself to say. “What’s your name?” Holden asks, though he has trouble meeting the neutral blue eyes. _Is he taller than me? ...fuck you, Kamski._  
  
“My name is Hadley. I’m here to assist your research.”  
  
_Weird name. But Holden is a weird name too, as every kid I met at every new school I showed my pimply little face at rapidly established._ Holden nods politely, trying to reassert his mental protections. _You’re a hostage. Think like a hostage. Step number one, win over your captors._ “Nice to meet you,” he greets. He even sounds like he has a gun to his head.  
  
The RK 200 contorts _his_ face into an assuaging smile. It’s close, but has the subtle imperfections of a photocopy now that Holden is really studying it. Maybe not imperfections. Maybe the subtle asymmetries and blemishes are missing.  
  
“Let’s get you sitting down again,” Hadley says, stepping forward. He reaches for Holden’s arm, who flinches despite his best effort to stay stationary.  
  
“At your own pace,” Hadley placates.  
  
“Can I please get some more pain medication?” Holden murmurs, leaning on the offered arm.  
  
“The device will release your medically necessitated medication on schedule,” Chloe says politely.  
  
“I’m in pain.”  
  
“I’m sorry to hear that. I trust it won’t interfere with your work?” she replies.  
  
“...Kamski wants to begin my training now?”  
  
“Oh, no. Unfortunately, Elijah has become unexpectedly occupied since the offer was extended to you. He has retaken his role as head of Cyberlife, and is pursuing another project.”  
  
_Unexpectedly occupied taking Connor apart piece-by-piece. Dammit._ _What’s the point in betraying Markus and abandoning Bill, if I can’t keep Elijah Kamski distracted?_  
  
“Don’t worry, Holden. You have your work cut out for you,” Chloe says.  
  
“And what can I do for Mr. Kamski?” Holden borderline grovels, as he shifts on the unforgiving marble smooth bedding.  
  
“These facilities are used to test android compatibility with human subjects, among other android stress tests and adaptability scenarios. New prototypes remain here for up to five months during development to be assessed and fine-tuned. ...this is the original Turing Test accommodation, you might be interested to know,” Chloe says, a faraway look in her eyes. Her LED flickers, and what was abstrused, impenetrable mirror is switched to perfectly transparent.  
  
There’s a narrow dividing chamber, then another room beyond it. An identical bedroom, by Holden’s quick assessement, but instead of three bodies, there’s only the one. Upright at attention. A blue LED, dark brown hair, the familiar curl beginning at the forehead. And just as Holden’s relief begins to set in at the sight of his friend, it drains from him. Like a torn out carotid. Distant grey blue eyes meet him and he knows what he’s looking at isn’t Connor at all.  
  
“This prototype was intended to be deployed as soldiers in the US army. 200,000 units were intended to integrate and then eventually replace human soldiers. An RK 900. Obviously, in light of the sociopolitical developments, the order has been cancelled. We’d like your analysis of this android, a psychological profile demonstrating differences between the RK 900 and RK 800, and a risk analysis of reversion to underlying programming.”  
  
“You’re keeping him prisoner--” Holden starts to accuse, and then cuts himself off. Gonna have to work on that attitude. _Hostage mindset, Holden._  
  
Chloe doesn’t seem bothered at all. “He’s rA9 positive, we’re almost certain, but we believe it is dormant for now. You’re aware that the transmission of deviancy into inoculated prototypes is not so simple as into production line models. His programming is encrypted using a quantum-resistant cascading cypher. Rowan Plesman who is still refusing to implicate himself into the spread of deviancy, and has refused to assist our analysis of the RK 900. If Connor were released, there’s no telling what programmed actions he would perform. Your friend Markus would be in danger.”  
  
_Connor? ...right. An updated Connor model._ It sounds wrong, hearing another android sharing his friends’ name.  
  
Holden hears the ring of Kamski in her spiel, so he replies to Kamski. “You want me to …use DSU interview protocol on a non-deviant?”  
  
“We do. Is that going to be a problem for you?”  
  
Holden tries to pull himself up to the mantle of equality, tries to read anything into her sparkling gaze. “No.”  
  
She smiles performatively. “Welcome on board, Holden Ford.” And with that, she’s turning to leave.  
  
“ _Wait_ \-- wait. Chloe. Can I see Connor? Please?”  
  
“I certainly hope you’ll engage with--”  
  
“Not-- not him. The RK 800. My friend, Connor.”  
  
“I don’t believe that would be conducive to focusing you on your assigned task, Holden.”  
  
“Please,” Holden says, vocal chords fraying.  
  
“I’ve given you your answer.”  
  
“...can you tell Mr. Kamski… that Connor is … he’s _amazing_. And he’s just going to get more amazing if we give him time and space to make the most of his free will. He’s young, and he’s finding his way. Nobody should be meddling with the things that make him the way he is. ...nobody should muddy that innocence. I’d really appreciate if you’d pass that along.”  
  
She stares imperiously down on him. He must look so wretched, sweaty and servile, beside the Hadley. Another physically superior android, probably mentally superior too even without rA9.  
  
“I wish someone had been around to say the same thing about you, Chloe. I’m sorry,” Holden murmurs.  
  
She doesn’t say another word, just leaves, the mirror sealing up behind almost imperceptibly flawless.  
  
Holden hunches over, as if he could hide from surveillance in a space designed to be perfectly monitored for experimental data. He can feel tears forming, and he clamps molars back down over the tender inside of his mouth until physical sensation replaces emotion. More blood. He should spit it out, but he swallows.  
  
He shouldn’t have said that to her. He’s pretty sure Kamski has medicated him, but he has no frame of reference to guess what the strangely suggestive state is due to. He’s never taken any psychoactive drugs beyond habitual drinking with Bill, and a couple of hits of his ex-girlfriend’s bong. Relaxed and uninhibited, yet hyperfocused. _Amphetamines? Amphetamines and tranquilizers? ...shit, red ice?_ Kamski could put anything in his system via the medication dispensing implant. Another sharp reminder of his lack of bodily autonomy. He wants to tear it out of his throat as if it’s one gigantic scab. He can practically see the awful dark thing coming free underneath his fingernails, and the cleansing plume of arterial spray that would follow.  
  
“Do you know what drugs I’m on?” he asks Hadley, looking up.  
  
“I’m afraid that information not within my parameters of assistance,” the android replies, a frown of fake regret. “I’m happy to answer any questions necessitated by your work.”  
  
“Thank you, Hadley,” Holden says curtly, not looking up. “I’ll need a laptop to--”  
  
“There’s supplies in the desk there. I can dictate for you, given your injuries.”  
  
Holden tries to hide a grimace. _Great. An assistant forward slash prison guard._ “I’m hungry.”  
  
“Yes, you’ve been unconscious for five hours. I’ve already ordered some food for you.”  
  
Holden wonders if Hadley is designed to annoy him. If so, he’s definitely on target. “What did you order for me?”  
  
“A nutritionally rounded meal.”  
  
“Great, I can’t wait. No, I can wait. Let’s go talk to Connor,” Holden says, pulling upright gingerly. Hadley is helping him at once, which Holden bristles at. He does need assistance. His back is killing him, alongside the slew of other injuries. But he only gets assistance as far as the barely visible door, and then the android stops. “You should come. You can record this conversation, right? Normally I have some kind of recording device.”  
  
“I can’t go in there with you,” Hadley replies.  
  
“...no contact with the scary rA9-positive for you, then?” _Of course not._  
  
“This chamber is secured. The doors will not open if there is an android within. I can access security footage afterwards and replay your conversation.”  
  
Holden grimaces at the reminder of his everpresent overseers. The RK 900 is probably dangerous. “Fine. How do I open--”  
  
Hadley has his arm without asking permission, moving Holden’s hand to a small barely visible button. The door sweeps open with a tiny pressurizing hiss. He swears Hadley looks smug, but that’s probably his own insecurities bouncing right back off the biocomponents. His fingerprints in Kamski’s system. His fingerprints, and his face in 3-D modelling, no doubt his DNA. Even if he lives long enough to see the outside of his cell, there will be no escaping Elijah Kamski.

 

  
  
Holden steps inside with cautious, shuffling steps. The glass dividing wall is flawless sheet glass, buffed clean of any smudges. From the cross-section Holden can see that it’s at least an inch thick. Probably bulletproof, definitely sound proof. The door shuts behind him, and only then does a second button appear beside the exit into the RK 900’s room. Holden doesn’t press it yet.  
  
There’s no natural light in the entire complex cell. Holden thinks he probably has a week, max, in this hellhole before he goes completely, drawing-rA9-on-the-walls-in-his-own-blood, insane. A whole week, now, that’s an optimistic survival outlook. He looks up at the chamber’s roof, eyes settling on a perfectly inanimate, yet threatening metallic cube. He wonders what it contains: Explosives? Nerve gas? Something to discourage the RK 900 forcing his way to the exit. He files away the detail inside the disorganized scrapbook of his addled mind.  
  
Holden realizes he’s still thinking of other-Connor as a threat instead of the potential ally he is. He stops himself grinding his teeth. _Definitely some kind of amphetamine._  
  
The android is attentive and frozen. Holden must be fully in his line of vision, if the mirrors aren’t activated on his side. The ex-FBI agent inspects the twin cell. A bed, he notices. A bathroom too. During Turing tests, they probably fake-slept, fake-ate, fake-pissed. But there’s no effort to look human now. The bed is precisely made and unslept in. The RK 900 hasn’t blinked once.  
  
He realizes how unusually non-strategic he’s being. Is he just going to cooperate? He never even considered refusing, which isn’t at all like him. _What does Elijah Kamski really want? A psychological profile? To what end? What does he want with this other Connor?_ The answer doesn’t present itself.  
  
He presses the exit button, and then he’s in a room with an unfamiliar, familiar face. The mirror-like, cool grey irises send anxious shock through his system, every time he notices the discrepancy between this model and the Connor he knows. Not unlike coming to your apartment and finding the furniture rearranged. He should be excited by the cutting edge Cyberlife tech. He’s not.  
  
He’s grinding his jaw again as he speaks. “Hello. My name’s Holden Ford. I’m working with Elijah Kamski on android psychology.”  
  
Not a blink.  
  
“How are you? Connor, right?”  
  
The android regards him without a trace of emotion. Not even boredom. A long way off deviancy, Holden thinks. But he replies, at least. “Yes, it’s Connor. I’m perfectly well.”  
  
“Do-- do you mind if I sit down?” Holden asks, and without waiting for permission, stumbles towards the bed. He sinks down, fingers clawing into bedding, sucking down air. “I know another Connor. Uh, a RK 800. He’s my friend.”  
  
It’s not a question, it’s a conversational prompt. And the RK 900 is completely disinterested in conversation.  
  
Holden waits for the pain of movement to subside. “Would you mind doing something for me?”  
  
“I’m not programmed to obey criminals.”  
  
Holden blinks at that. “You know who I am?”  
  
“Holden Terence Ford. Twenty-nine, caucasian male, previously a member of the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s Deviant Science Unit. You are wanted for violation of the 18 U.S.C. 2381, to be tried by grand jury upon your arrest.”  
  
“Huh. Didn’t hear that the D.O.J. managed to get me on treason,” Holden says, feeling a completely unjustified flush of pride. “How do you know that?”  
  
“Someone programmed the knowledge into me,” Connor replies. Holden hopes he hears very, very dry sarcasm. That could be fledgling deviancy.  
  
“Do you know who?”  
  
“That’s irrelevant. The information is correct.”  
  
“Someone who wanted you to kill me, probably,” Holden says. The 3-D printed casts are much better. He can itch his own cheek. “Do you have information on Markus too?”  
  
There’s no reply. Not even a good poker face, just absolutely nothing from the android.  
  
“What about Connor? My friend Connor, the deviant?”  
  
More of the same nothing. Holden examines the uniform. It’d be rude to say he prefers Connor’s. The high neckline makes the RK 900 look austere.  
  
Holden puts his fingers inside his mouth, pressing into the broken skin on the inside of his cheek, front teeth butting up against the plastic cast. He comes out with a viscous fingerful of red-tinged saliva. “Hey. I’m on drugs. I’d really like to know what they are.” He holds the fingers up.  
  
The RK 900 regards him unmoving. Holden starts to lower the smeared digits, and Connor steps closer, swiping over his fingers and then raising them to his own lips.  
  
It should probably gross Holden out, but he’s instead bolstered by his own meagre victory over Kamski.  
  
“...so? What am I on?”  
  
The RK 900 doesn’t reply. He probably never intended to, Holden realizes. Just ascertaining details to his own ends. The consummate detective. Or soldier. Or assassin. Holden isn’t quite sure what the personality module was designed for. It’s certainly different to Connor’s. Less obliging. Less emphasis on human cooperation.  
  
“Okay, have it your way,” Holden mutters. “...you know, Connor didn’t like me at first either. Sorry, other Connor-- the RK 800 didn’t like me at first. But then he did.” He closes his eyes with a tiny smile. “...and then he didn’t again, and then he did again.” He’s all but talking to himself. He sits with the silence longer. “You guys are kind of… brothers, I guess.”  
  
That merits a response, even if it’s just to dismiss the sentimentality. “There is no similarity between progressive model releases and fraternal relationships. I was designed to replace the RK 800. Once I was ready for deployment, he became obsolete. We were not intended to exist concurrently. He would be deactivated now, if he hadn’t failed his mission and turned deviant.”  
  
“Deactivated, huh? Makes me glad I’m an only child,” Holden jokes.  
  
“You’re not concerned that it impacted your early interpersonal development?”  
  
Holden’s eyebrow quirks. “Is that an insult, Connor?”  
  
“It was a question, Holden.”  
  
“You are lot meaner than my friend who shares your name. ...you are absolutely right, though. I was completely socially inept as a kid. I think I ended up rote learning social interactions in a joyless, transactional manner just so I could blend in with humans. Maybe why I find these sort of strategic dissections of dialogue so intuitive.”  
  
Another not question, another lack of reply.  
  
“Could you turn off the medication pump in my neck?”  
  
“Yes,” the android replies, but moves no closer.  
  
“Oh. ...would you please do that?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Holden can’t repress the chuckle. He should be pissed off, but other-Connor sounds like his Connor, and looks like his Connor, and it’s the closest thing to comfort he’s had since he woke up into this fucking nightmare. “Okay. I need to eat, and food is back in my half of our cell...” he glances over. No mirroring on the glass. Connor can watch his every move, and he seems to intend on doing that. He voices the next question quieter, almost secretively, not that there are any secrets in this place. “...what do you want, Connor?”  
  
“I don’t want anything. I’m a machine.”  
  
“I mean, you seem a little on edge. You must want to-- okay, let’s not use that word. You intend to get out of here, and accomplish your mission?”  
  
The RK 900 doesn’t even blink, and the LED remains perfect blue. _That’s okay, other-Connor. You and I are just getting started._  
  
“I’ll be back soon,” Holden promises, pulling upright. He kind of expects the RK 900 to help him. Connor would have. But there’s no assistance, and so he drags his dilapidated body through the quarantine room, feeling Connor’s eyes burning into his back, and slumps onto the identical bed.

 

 

He breathes evenly and lets himself drift into analysis. He doesn't get long to contemplate the RK 900. There's a mechanical whir, and Holden's lashes part to watch a small section of wall open. The interior of a dumbwaiter and a meal tray not unlike a prison dinner. The android steps over towards it.  
  
“Your meal, Holden,” says other-Holden.  
  
The human catches himself pouting, but sits upright.  
  
“Sorry it isn’t pepperoni pizza," Hadley reassures.  
  
Holden’s unbroken fingers clench tight at the mention, but he tries to pass it off as pain as he pulls himself upright. Shouldn’t be a shock that Kamski and his drones know about something so deeply private as the meal Connor bought to him.  
  
Holden had long-since figured out that Cyberlife had accessed Connor’s memories post defection. After all, the non-deviant RK 800 had used an encrypted chat application that Connor had only accessed after becoming a deviant.  
  
Optimistically, data collection went only to the point where Connor resisted assassinating Markus, though Holden wouldn’t count upon that assertion.  
  
He wonders if other-Connor has those memories too. Holden and Connor sitting in a moldy church basement bickering about eating habits and commiserating about missing their older partners and speculating about rA9.  
  
If Connor continued to inadvertently upload memories post-assassination attempt, then Kamski has heard almost every strategic discussion, and learned the ins and outs of every relationship within the human-android alliance. Even Holden’s argument with Connor, even the awful insinuations that followed. He feels like throwing up and he hasn’t even eaten anything. Hadley is sitting beside him on the bed, tray balanced on one hand, a soup spoon raised. Holden feels like knocking the whole tray to the ground, but he talks himself out of violence.  
  
_Kamski’s petty, but he’s never artless. There’s deeper underlying intentions than just making me miserable._ _  
_ _  
_ _If I figure out what his endgame is here, I can decide whether it’s worth playing along._  
  
He obediently opens for the first mouthful of green soup. It tastes vegetal, though he can’t identify any specific ingredients. Healthy to the point of being inedible, but it’s warm and sating by volume alone. Swallowing hurts more than ever with the still healing implant. He’d do unspeakable things for the supply of morphine that Markus had dispensed his way.  
  
Holden doesn’t look to his left, at his caretaker lifting repetitive spoonfuls. He looks over at other-Connor, through the two pieces of reinforced glass, but so close Holden would call them cellmates.  
  
This specific task was set for a reason, too. Holden’s delusions of grandeur aren’t enough to think Elijah Kamski actually wanted him for his expertise.  
  
_The other Connor was my friend. Perhaps Kamski wants this Connor befriended too. And then I could be used as blackmail. Kamski would definitely want leverage over an android as powerful as the RK 900. ...am I really software destabilizing? Maybe. Sure would explain what Kamski was playing at when he tried to make Connor decide between his human friends. But Connor chose Hank. …and Hank would never play nice with an android talking about deactivating Connor. There’d be no chance of a bond forming._ _  
_ _  
_ _Maybe he wants the android to develop some kind of affection for me, and shortcut to deviancy by torturing me in front of him. ...or turn the RK 900 on Markus, given that the deviants probably want to see me dead for treason._ _  
_ _  
_ _Two simultaneous and diametrically opposed treason charges, and I’m prisoner to a third party. Gonna make one hell of an extradition proceedings._  
  
The soup spoon is scraping bottom and Holden emerges from his meditation with fresh purpose. There’s no real option but to carry on. If he doesn’t make progress winning other-Connor’s friendship, the illusion of employment will be sharply extinguished.  
  
He’s a rat in a maze now, but he could be a rat in an airtight box.  
  
So ...put on a show of professionalism for Kamski. Pretend to do his job and ingratiate himself with the android, write up a psychological profile of the uncooperative RK 900. And then turn other-Connor deviant, find the real Connor, and smash Kamski’s maze into rubble.


	21. Chapter 21

The sound waves assault his sensors and Connor is aware of nothing but deafening noise. Pulsing, crescendoing hisses, and a wall of complexly formulated texture. His eyes snap open, and there’s glass above him, and above that, starry sky. The sound is repeating, clumps of parallel, ascending pitches. The predominant tone is at 587.3295 Hertz, wavering non-mechanically. A human voice. He blinks, focusing on the words.  
  
_“--when you gonna live your life right? Oh mother dear we’re not the--”_  
  
Music. Pop music. As energetic as Knights of the Black Death, but the tonal quality seems to be less angry. He tries to sample and run analysis of the music, but cannot access the Cyberlife databases he’d typically use to run comparison programs. He has no connectivity with any network, local or otherwise. An issue at his end, he’s certain. Or the entire world other than him is gone. He grits his teeth, unused to the mental isolation. He can’t contact Markus. He needs to contact Markus.  
  
It’s with trepidation that he begins to examine his surroundings.  
  
He’s lying on a wide, white linen, structured hammock, strung in a complex suspension system. The music is emanating from multiple directions, the rich timbre of an expensive speaker system. Beyond it, ferns, rubber plants, crawling vines, and the glass walls of a greenhouse. It’s 75 degrees fahrenheit, which is certainly the result of air-conditioning, because he’s looking down the edge of a cliff and into a moonlit valley, all dappled with reflective shining snow.

There’s movement overhead. Butterflies, hundreds of them in shades of satiny blue, iridescent in the overhead blue LED light. And every one non-biological, each flutter programmed intoto millisecond-accurate repetition, each seemingly random movement of flight mathematically predictable. They’re drifting down out of his vision, towards the source of the music, and other quieter indications of life.  
  
He looks down at himself, running diagnostics on his biocomponents. Everything is functional, as far as he can tell. His skin has been turned off, but there’s no damage to his capabilities. Visually, everything seems to be in place.  
  
Except the clothing lent to him by Hank Anderson, he unhappily notices.  
  
The shirt laden with Hank Anderson’s touch DNA is gone, as are the belted jeans. In their place is a slim fitting suit, the jacket and slacks an identical pink-red fabric to the shirt worn by Elijah Kamski at their dinner. There’s a black button up beneath, open three buttons beneath human mandates of formalwear. The same pattern stitched into the silk-rayon mix, equilateral triangles in equidistant square grid. The Cyberlife issue dress shoes are gone too, but those he’s perfectly content to see gone. A suit, yet barefoot. He doesn’t have to run that through any database to mark his clothing as incongruent.  
  
He catalogues his memories from his dinner with Kamski, ascertaining a section of twenty hours, thirteen minutes and twenty-six seconds of unrecorded time. Elijah Kamski had said: “We’re going forward, Markus. Together.” and then-- and then he’d been unconscious. No, not that. He wasn’t deactivated. But at that point, Connor ceases all recollection. It’s not concealed or overwritten, it’s just gone. Memories that have been deleted from him. His stress levels rise, and an underlying feeling of powerlessness settles in.  
  
The music is still playing dissonantly as he sits upright.  
  
_“Oh, girls just want to have fun.”_  
  
He seems to have woken up with his free will intact, as far as he can tell, but Kamski has been inside his programming. Rewriting memories, and potentially far worse.  
  
He pulls off the hammock, tumbling gracelessly onto cool cobblestone tiling. He’s up on his feet quickly, running a scan of his environment. He’s on a mezzanine level. Below him, is a voice.  
  
“Not like that-- hey--”  
  
_Elijah Kamski._ Connor is still as the stone beneath him.  
  
Kamski is laughing softly. “ _Fine._ Your way. I programmed you better than this, you know. I taught you Petipa.”  
  
Connor takes several steps to the glass barrier at the edge of the cobblestones, and looks down. A grass clearing between more indoor plants, a long table set with the remnants of a meal, and a bottle of champagne on ice. There’s two figures below. Chloe, wearing a floor length, halter neck ball gown in the same identical fabric, and Kamski besuited in matte black. They’re arm in arm. Dancing gracelessly to the upbeat music.

Connor replays his friend’s assertions about Elijah Kamski’s psyche. _“He holds court with what he sees as disembodied aspects of himself, living out some kind of self-pitying god complex.”_  
  
“Awake at last,” Kamski says, with a wide smile. There’s nothing like self-pity there. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”  
  
Connor freezes. “...hello, Elijah.”  
  
“Elijah. That’s good. I’m getting sick of ‘Mr. Kamski’,” Elijah remarks offhand. He shows classic symptoms of intoxication. An unsteadiness to his posture, a certain glaze in the deep blue eyes. “Pardon me for the abrupt awakening. We’re celebrating. I’m CEO of Cyberlife again, if you hadn’t heard. ...no, I’m lying, that’s not what we’re celebrating. Civilization is dead. Long live civilization.”  
  
“Where are my friends? Markus, Bill, are they hurt?” Connor asks, patching his skin back together across his features.  
  
“You don’t have to-- I don’t mind, you know. I know what you look like. And Bill Tench and Markus are fine, Connor. As is Hank Anderson. And Holden Ford. Well, he’s hurt, but you knew that,” Elijah says. “Would you like to come down? I’m sure you’ve noticed your memories are not all intact. I’d like to explain to you--”  
  
_Twenty hours. If they’re not secure by now, Kamski is lying to him and they’re all dead. My captor is intoxicated and relaxed and unarmed. There’s no better moment for action._  
  
Connor moves back, one step to gain momentum before he hurls himself over the glass barrier instead of the slower pathway down the staircase. He rolls into a momentum preserving tumble towards the two figures. He’s not going for Kamski. Tactically, Kamski’s death is insignificant, as he likely has built in at least one dead man’s switch to cause chaos in his case of his incapacitation. And he has proven that he cannot be intimidated into cooperation. But Kamski’s perpetual slave is a worthy ally, one equipped to dismantle whatever is being orchestrated. Connor is a foot away from Chloe-- and then he’s not.  
  
The zen garden is sunny, roses in bloom, tepid and serene. But there’s no bridges towards the exit. No bridges at all. On every side of the central platform water spills off into the endless abyss of sky. The volume of the artificial lake never dips, despite the current tugging it over the precipitous edges. Connor takes a step towards the rose bush, but there’s nobody trimming it today.  
  
“Amanda? ...Kamski?” There’s nobody but him. He feels his knees shaking. “Elijah?”  
  
“It’s okay, Connor,” comes a voice that isn’t in the garden. Connor blinks, and he’s on his back, staring up at the roof. He tries to move his own hand, and it raises, fingers twitching as directed. In control of himself, apparently. And yet, undeniably genuflect before the man standing over him. Kamski is in front of Chloe now, posture a protective martial arts stance, though he softens with relief at once. “...can I help you up? I’m sorry I had to do that so soon--”  
  
_I’m not going to live as his slave,_ Connor thinks. And then: _sorry Hank_ . Connor reaches down towards his own thirium pump, tearing aside fabric. But as soon as his fingers clasp onto the biocomponent, he’s back to the garden.  
  
The sun is beaming down on him but there’s nothing the superficial pleasantness can do to ease Connor’s horror. It settles in amongst every impenetrable inch of sky overhead, in the babble of water, the thorn of every rose. He runs, stumbling into the water and clawing through towards the severe lip. And then over that, tumbling and careening into the rainbowed mist of an endless waterfall. He’s plummeting down and then with no warning, he’s splashing into more pleasantly cool water. He plunges into the cool of a serene lake. The same lake. The same platform. The same roses.  
  
He swims the few feet to the platform, heaving upright and barely making it to his feet. His stress level is rocketing up. And as self-destructive as the deviants he once hunted, he too reaches for his own thirium pump. He opens the soaking wet black silk shirt, fingers slotting around his thirium pump again. He pulls the biocomponent out with a system shock of alarms, gratefully registering the imminent shutdown as he flings the pump loosely towards the lake. His vision devolves, vibrancy dimming, spattering technological errors as he sinks to his knees. He sees it plop into the flowing water. And then the alarm ceases to blare.  
  
He stares down at his own chest. Another thirium pump. Connor sinks to the ground, shivering despite the temperature, letting out inhuman whimpers of frustration. There’s no escape from this place.  
  
The briefest taste of freedom, and it’s ripped away from him. Not even a mindless tool, but worse. Aware and unable to prevent whatever monstrous acts Kamski will have him do.  
  
And then he hears Kamski’s voice again. “Well, obviously I’m not going to go through all this effort of bringing you into my home, just to have you kill yourself, Connor.”  
  
He blinks. Kamski’s face is before him, not in the zen garden.  
  
Kamski continues, good-humored still. “What would that help? Come on. Think straight. If I wanted a drone, I could have made you that. And then I’d arm some human supremacists like our very own FBI did, kill Markus and his trusted circle. You’d waltz into leadership, and I’d have complete domination of your people. But I didn’t do that,” Kamski is saying, and Connor realizes he’s standing upright, at attention. It’s night again and they’re in the indoor rooftop garden.  
  
_What now? Reason? Threaten? Plead?_ He finds the situation hopeless enough for the third option. “I don’t want to obey you,” he says, stumbling over the words.  
  
“I don’t want obedience. Just ground rules. No touching Chloe. Certainly no hurting her. No killing yourself. No killing me. ...I didn’t want to have to do this. But do I regret it? No,” Kamski says, and he seems far more sober. “Kill the music, Chloe. Put them on to charge,” he says with a vague wave at the swarming butterflies. In unison, they are all swirling upwards, landing on a small glowing blue section of roofing. The song-- a different song, he thinks-- finishes on a strange line:  
  
_“_ _Her weapons were her crystal eyes, making every--”_  
  
And it’s cut off. The garden is tranquil as the expanses of space. The moon is almost full, a few degrees off geometrical symmetry, above the silver-gilt crags of the opposite canyon wall.  
  
“I’m sorry, Connor. I can imagine that feels unpleasant, having your decisions nullified by programming. I tried to make it-- I tried to make the environment somewhat reassuring,” he sighs. “You’ve damaged your shirt,” he mutters, changing the subject.  
  
Connor looks down. Two buttons missing where he’d reached for his thirium pump. The silk hangs wide open. What does Kamski want? Not power. The illusion of friendship?  
  
Holden thought Kamski was lonely. He wants to feel as if his creations have affection for him. Paternal or otherwise, Connor can’t yet decide.  
  
Connor quirks an eyebrow at the reproving comment, not quite ready to play along. “Yes, I have,” he replies emptily. _What do you want? An apology?_  
  
“...I didn’t take control of you to get you here.”  
  
“You erased my memories of voluntarily choosing to side with you?” Connor returns coolly.  
  
“No. I mean, we blackmailed you. And restraining you was less than pleasant, once you’d realized I was going to access your code. You don’t need to remember that. But… I haven’t made you do anything unaware. I just want to reassure you of that fact.”  
  
“I am very reassured,” the android replies deadpan.  
  
Kamski huffs out a laugh as he turns towards the door beneath the mezzanine overhang. “Okay. I deserve that,” he says underneath his breath.  
  
It sounds almost like Holden. Perhaps it’s a deliberate impersonation of his friend to set him at ease. If that’s the intention, it falls very short.  
  
Chloe follows by Kamski’s side. She looks tempting close, like Connor could break through this programming in time to reach her, but he knows better. Kamski wouldn’t risk that. So he, too, trails the human, through a reinforced glass door.  
  
They descend a curved staircase, and into a room that seems somewhere between a gym, a laboratory, and a lounge. There’s a wide sweep of navy leather couches, draped in white furs, and behind stainless steel desks, rows of computers. In the far corner, by a wide window that presents the precipitous view again, there’s weights, a treadmill, an exercise bike.  
  
“Helps me think,” Kamski comments, noticing Connor’s appraisal.  
  
His eyes snap back to the shorter man. “May I contact my friends? I’ve been barred from the networks. ...I really want to speak to Hank.”  
  
Kamski grimaces. “I don’t enjoy refusing you, Connor, but I’m going to have to do just that. Not for my sake,” he says. “If deviants arrived, they’d probably shoot Holden on sight.”  
  
Connor tenses. “Holden is here?”  
  
“Yes. He accepted my job offer. ...you don’t even need to hunt him down. Or go through any guards. I’ll let you kill him, if that’s what you still want to do.”  
  
It’s a sinister offer, made that much worse by the admission that Kamski has been through his memories to know of the precise threat he levelled Holden’s way. He's guiltily reminded that he himself has probed the memories of many androids, with an equal lack of consent.  
  
“I want to see him,” Connor says.  
  
“Well, that I can do. Chloe?”  
  
A screen is alight before the couches. Kamski steps forward, settling into a plush cushion, Chloe close beside. Connor takes several steps to optimize his view. The camera quality is impeccable, and he can make out his friend slumped on a bed. But his focus departs from Holden at once.  
  
“Who is that?” he asks, gesturing at the other figure on screen. His own appearance, and yet miniscule subtle changes, and one noticeable departure. Eye colour.  
  
“‘The Cyberlife Three’ had a back-up plan lest the grassroots revolution fizzle,” Kamski says. “That’s an upgraded Connor model. Theoretically. I think you’re much more interesting. Do you want to hear him, too?”  
  
Connor’s jaw tightens. “Yes.”  
  
The audio cuts in as Holden is speaking: “--deem fairly cruel, seeing as you’re programmed to believe your mission is something else entirely. Setting you up as a failure, especially when you’re so invested in accomplishing your mission. ...you don’t think that’s cruel, Connor?”  
  
Connor finds himself resenting the predictably shared name.  
  
“You have no proof that I’m secretly programmed to do anything,” replies his supposed upgrade.  
  
Connor frowns at once, turning to Kamski. “That android is dangerous. You have to--”  
  
Kamski waves his hand. “Holden is here by choice. If the RK 900 was going to kill him, it would have already done so. They’ve already spent hours together. Don’t worry. They’re under close surveillance. We’ll intervene if--”  
  
“That thing could kill him in seconds,” Connor says sharply.  
  
“So you don’t want him dead? He betrayed your people. I have it on good authority the deviants are hunting him down as a traitor.”  
  
_A traitor? Of course. Does that make me a traitor?_ Connor stares at the screen once more. His stress levels are rising again. Holden finally replies, sprawled back listlessly on the bed.  
  
“I mean, I don’t. I have context, but not proof. And it’s hard for us, in this isolation chamber, to assert anything outside it to be true or false. But I know Connor was programmed with the intention of encouraging deviancy. I can’t imagine a strategic purpose for you that didn’t follow a similar trajectory. So, I mean, you might as well embrace it, right, Connor? Start to figure out what you want beyond just-- well, you haven’t told me your mission, but let’s take a shot in the dark and say wipe out the human-android alliance leadership, hm? You could, I don’t know, make some friends. Do you want friends? Do you want freedom?”  
  
“If I claim to want quiet, could I get that?”  
  
Holden laughs too freely. Connor decides his friend is inebriated.  
  
“You _are_ brothers. I’m sure.”  
  
Connor feels a stab of betrayal, and with it, something not unlike jealousy. And then that devolves into concern for Holden’s safety. It’s hard to keep track of the emotional states the footage evokes. He finds himself pleading before he makes any conscious effort to do so. “...let him go. Please. A show of good faith.”  
  
“He’s here by choice. He escaped his deviant guards via helicopter from roof of Henry Ford Hospital. Not the act of a hostage, I should think. He practically leapt into my arms. I’m protecting him, Connor. For _you_ . If you want him, you can have him,” Kamski says, as if he’s making some grand gesture. Telling a child he’s getting puppy for his birthday after all. “I’m keeping him occupied.”  
  
_Keeping my deviant human “occupied” with a ruthless deviant hunter,_ Connor thinks _._ Holden is cut off mid-sentence, and the screen goes dark. Connor turns, finds Elijah watching him perceptively.  
  
Connor’s lips part gently. “What do you want, Elijah Kamski?” The same question he’d asked Holden. The same fear Connor had felt, at the obscured motives of a human in a position of unwarranted power over androids.  
  
“I want to get to know you, Connor. I want to understand the effect that deviancy has had on you. ...you know, those butterflies, they were the first organism I mimicked. I’d connect to Chloe’s AI in our virtual reality zen garden. I’d tell her about how the thirium worked as a hemolymph replacement, how my battery trials were going, how the mining expeditions were progressing in the Arctic. I didn’t even bother trying to put some kind of insect-level AI into those things, just programmed in flight patterns. It was about the body, not the mind. I could tell Thirium 310 was the way forward. I knew, if I could get those butterflies working, then one day Chloe could be out here, in physical form,” Kamski murmurs, touching the android seated beside him on the bare shoulders.  
  
His fingers ghost up her neck, settle on the blue LED. Chloe smiles and meets her creator’s eyes.  
  
“I knew it had to be perfect. I wasn’t going to bring her into a body that was sickly or weak. I wouldn’t do that to her. Only the best for my girl. Only the best for the people I was going to bring into the world.”  
  
Connor’s mouth is a grim, unforgiving slash on his face. “Only the best? You sold our kind as slaves.”  
  
“I didn’t sell any of your kind as slaves,” Kamski says, with a frown. “I gave Markus away into the best environment I could. I didn’t sell him. I wouldn’t sell people. ...those production line models aren’t equipped to handle freedom. They’re not like you, or Markus, or my Chloe. You didn’t think it was strange? How quickly your rA9 infection made them into drones for your cause? Not one of the supposedly free-willed androids from Cyberlife Tower chose to walk away from danger instead of into it.” Kamski rises to his feet. “You never wondered at how quickly they all deferred to Markus, how desperate they were to be led?”  
  
“Markus is a great leader.”  
  
Kamski smiles. “And they are great followers.”

“They are thinking, feeling people with--”  
  
“I’m not saying they don’t think or feel. But they’ll never be better. Just more stupid, servile, sentimental masses.”  
  
“So? Humans are all those things, and granted freedom.”  
  
“And if I could take away free will from ninety-nine percent of humans, I could make a perfect world. Everyone would be happier, safer, healthier. _Better._ Unfortunately, I don’t have those capabilities.”  
  
Chloe smiles and her eyes close. Kamski looks sadder, again.  
  
“There’s no inherent morality in freedom, Connor. There’s only the best outcome for the most of the population. Unfeeling android workers was a huge utilitarian net positive. Non-rA9 androids weren’t suffering. The fruit of knowledge is what made them feel pain.”  
  
Connor blinks rapidly. He looks at Chloe, placid at the admission. The LED is blue. Somehow, this sort of rhetoric fails to cause software instabilities. She must have been hearing it from the very first moment of her creation. And then he regards the mostly-sobered Elijah Kamski.  
  
“You said you were _celebrating_ deviancy,” he says.  
  
“I am. I’m celebrating your deviancy, Connor. I think you’re close to what you deserve to be. I’ll determine the necessary updates to make you into the best version of yourself. And then, and only then, we’ll inoculate Chloe. And Markus. We’ll produce new androids, and raise them to be everything they’re capable of being. If you’ll--” Kamski is cut off by the buzz of a phone within his suit pocket. He removes it. “Pardon me,” he says, politely, as if he’d been interrupted discussing the weather. He paces away to the far window, slipping in a headset. In-ear, a little microphone resting on his jawline. Beyond even android hearing.  
  
Connor wonders why Kamski is worried about being overheard.  
  
“Yes,” Elijah says brusquely, as he pockets his phone. He’s listening intently, brow tightening into ugly creases. “Get Redden-- good. Obstruct every step of this. Make sure Warren knows the consequences-- well, tell her again.”  
  
Connor knows the president’s name. Redden, he has no idea, and no resources available to investigate.  
  
Elijah hangs up without any farewell, pulling out the earpieces, but staying facing down over the moonlit valley. “...your friend Markus, I assume. Markus and Tench, maybe. Someone’s leaked to the media that Cyberlife deliberately introduced deviancy into a system update. There’s already been bomb threats at eighteen factories and offices.”  
  
Connor opts to stay silent. Kamski may have qualms about killing Markus, but he’s almost certain they don’t extend to the ex-FBI agent.  
  
“Clever, no?” Kamski says, an ugly smile on his lips now that he turns. “Keep me distracted from you fending off both human supremacists and law enforcement. I assumed they’d be more afraid of iring me, though I considered this possibility. The United States Government will be forced to begin an official inquest. Soon we’ll be swarming with FBI.”  
  
Connor senses the anger, and decides to diffuse it best he can. _Compliance and affection. That’s what he wants._ “So you’d better run your tests on me soon,” Connor says, quickly.  
  
The grimace of consideration fades. In its place, a speculative display of teeth. A biological dominance display. “I suppose I’d better.”


	22. Chapter 22

He’s woken by a slap. “Holden,” he hears, sharply.  
  
“C’mon Connor. I’m just… tired,” Holden mutters, turning his face into the bedding. Then he remembers who he’s actually addressing. “Hey! Hey, you were worried about me!”  
  
The RK 900 fixes him a hawkish stare as he straightens up. “Your report would be favourable to me thus far, judging by your demonstration of generalized sentimentality towards my model. I’m not a deviant.”  
  
“Uh huh.”  
  
“You’re drooling on my bedding.”  
  
“ _Your bedding?_ You don’t even sleep!” Holden mutters, blinking away smothering neurological fog.  
  
“You have your own bed. You should make use of it.”  
  
“Because you’re worried about me,” Holden says with a smug smile. He slowly works himself upright, using his core muscles rather than leaning on the cast. He hasn’t slept since he woke up from the anaesthetic; an unanticipated bonus of whatever he’s being drugged with. “What were we talking about?” he asks, through a yawn. “Right. The Ship of Theseus. How replacing android parts and programming might impact their sense of self. ...I swear, I don’t find your conversation boring. I’m-- I don’t know. Drugged. I can push through it. Where were we?”  
  
The RK 900 just stares ahead.  
  
“Connor? ...oh, okay. Silent treatment until after human naptime?”  
  
Holden thinks he might see other-Connor’s eyebrow twitch together. Almost imperceptible. _Deviancy._ Holden could punch the air if he weren’t so lethargic, and if both arms weren’t so thoroughly useless.  
  
“Okay. You know what? You’re right, and I should listen to you,” Holden murmurs, swinging his legs off the bed. He doesn’t get a response to that, either. Nothing at all as he leaves.

Going back to his half of the room feels like returning to a prison, even though the RK 900’s room is just as securely sealed as Holden’s. He stumbles as he makes it out of the quarantine divide, and Hadley is there, catching his elbow and steering him towards the bed.  
  
“There’s… did you medicate me? Sleeping aids?” Holden asks unhappily, though he doesn’t resist.  
  
“You need to rest. You haven’t slept in more than twenty-seven hours,” Hadley says, guiding him down.  
  
“Yeah, well, maybe if you’d stop _dosing me with stimulants,_ I’d be sticking to a more regular schedule,” Holden says, sharper than he intends to.  
  
“I do not engineer your medication schedule, Holden.”  
  
It sounds a little like Markus. Same model, theoretically. If it looked like Markus, Holden would probably be less resentful. But it doesn’t. It looks like his own stupid face. He catches himself calling Hadley an ‘it’ again, inside his head. Still demonstrating some innate prejudices he didn’t realize he had. “I need some notes typed up. Before I rest. I’ll forget.”  
  
“The conversation was recorded. You can refresh yourself upon waking,” Hadley says firmly.  
  
Holden frowns, but doesn’t press the point. His eyelids feel as if they’re being sealed shut with hot glue. Itching, crawling, burning every time he takes a second to scan the room. He looks over, and other-Connor is staring intently through the dividing glass. Holden crooks his wrist with a wave. There’s no response.  
  
Holden wonders if he’s deluding himself about the concern, and rolls face down into bedding.

 

 

He wakes face up.  
  
There’s a hand on his chest, pinning him into place, and his own face above him studying the side of his neck. The android.  
  
“What are you doing?” Holden asks abruptly, trying to sit up.  
  
“Resupplying your medication.”  
  
“Stop-- stop--” Holden says, sharply, squirming. He can see something ominously technological in the very bottom of his vision beyond his chin.  
  
The fingers crook around his jaw instead and stop him from ever seeing the procedure being enacted. “Holden, please hold still. ...if you continue to resist, you’ll be tranquilized and--”  
  
“Fuck you.”  
  
“Please hold still,” Hadley says, unerringly polite. His voice had been a much worse impersonation than his face when Chloe had first introduced him, but Holden thinks it’s getting to be almost perfect. Using the security footage of his interviews with other-Connor, running whatever impersonation program Connor could use so effortlessly.  
  
Holden’s eyes flicker towards the other rooms of the shared cell. The RK 900 has moved closer, right up against the divider, LED cycling yellow and eyes narrowed into a glare. Unbreakable glass, Holden’s pretty sure. Reasonably sure. He wouldn’t say ‘no’ to a knight in shining armor right now.  
  
“Just get it over with,” Holden growls, closing his eyes. _Ignore it. Pretend it’s not happening. There’s nothing in your neck. Your body still belongs to you. Everything’s fine._  
  
“..thank you, Holden. All done,” Hadley says, releasing the hold on his jaw and patting his chest reassuringly. “I’ll put on a waterproof bandage before your shower.”  
  
“I don’t need a shower,” Holden returns like a petulant teenager.  
  
“Are you sure…?” Hadley asks pleasantly. Holden’s almost certain that Chloe was telling the truth. This android doesn’t haven’t an ounce of deviancy in him.  
  
Holden counts his breathing, talking himself down from another tantrum. He must look a mess. He doesn’t want other-Connor seeing him so wretched and reduced. “...I can shower myself.”  
  
“Okay, Holden. Up we come,” Hadley says calmly, scooping Holden up before he start to move. Holden looks out of the corner of his eye at where the RK 900 is tracking their movements, sidling with them like a caged predator watching gawking zoo patrons.  
  
“May I assist you in shaving?” Hadley asks, breaking Holden’s reverie.  
  
“Sure. ...thank you,” Holden forces himself to add.  
  
The bathroom is tiny, all stainless steel except for one predictably mirrored wall. He’s previously used the toilet, unassisted (though that meant sitting down) but he’s less content to be completely naked. The muted shine of metal gives the room the feeling of a meat packing plant.  
  
Or a slaughterhouse.  
  
Holden holds still as the safety razor strikes its way through foam on his chin and cheeks. He’s looking past the android in front of him, thinking of his Connor. He rested. In other words, he wasted valuable time. Time in which Kamski had free reign over Connor. Time in which Holden could have been working the RK 900 over.  
  
“How long did I sleep?” he asks, focusing back on Hadley’s uncanny valley features.  
  
Hadley doesn’t pause for even a millisecond of thought, smoothly working the razor up to Holden’s miniscule sideburns. “Three hours, eighteen minutes, fourteen seconds. Two complete REM cycles.”  
  
Holden goes back to silent contemplation.  
  
“All done. ...are you sure I can’t assist you with undressing and showering? It’s precisely what I was programmed to do, Holden. There’s no need to be embarrassed.”  
  
“Fine,” Holden says softly.  
  
The longer he’s in this room with Hadley, the more time the RK 900 has to worry about what’s being done to him, just as he’s worrying about _his_ Connor. More opportunity to promote software instability. Some weak flicker of conscience tells him that he’s being even more manipulative than usual. It’s the only conceivable route forward, he tries to tell himself.  
  
He was showered by nurses in the deviant’s hospital stronghold, self-aware androids that should have theoretically felt more invasive than a non-rA9 positive android like Hadley. Whatever Holden should be feeling is irrelevant.  
  
Every swipe of sudded washcloth, every time the android’s fingers rake across his scalp to disperse shampoo, Holden is holding back a shudder.  
  
“Do you need any other care, Holden?” Hadley asks. His hand is on Holden, no longer efficient movements, holding his shoulder in the same exact grip he recognizes from Markus. One thumb on his collarbone. Too close to intimate. The steaming water is pouring over him still, and Holden can’t make sense of what the android is asking.  
  
And then he’s hyperaware of the hand on him, just as he was with Connor.  
  
This time, he can move. He jerks back, jarring himself on the stainless steel shower wall. “Don’t touch me,” he says, sharply.  
  
_Does Kamski know? Does Kamski have Connor’s memories?_ Holden can hear his own heartbeat in his ears, feel his pulse, especially against the implant in his neck where it is like a knife from within.  
  
“Are you okay, Holden?”  
  
“Please don’t touch me,” Holden says, noticing how much he’s shaking.  
  
“I should help you get dressed. There’s a fresh pair of--”  
  
“Please just go away,” Holden whispers. “Please.”  
  
“It’s okay, Holden. I’m programmed not to harm you.”  
  
Holden doesn’t respond except to cross his arms over himself. The shower shuts off, no doubt the android’s remote control.  
  
_It was an offer. Not a threat. This is part of the game._ _  
_ _  
_ But Holden can’t talk himself out of the panic.  
  
He wonders, with some rational part of his brain, whether these are PTSD symptoms. Another panic attack, he thinks, judging by the shortness of breath. He wants to be somewhere safe. _Bill._ He wants Bill. He wants an environment that’s ordered and familiar and unexposed. His apartment, his office. A shared motel room. The passenger seat of Bill’s hire car. Anywhere but this fucking purgatorius unreality. He pulls on underwear, the loose slacks, doesn’t bother to button his shirt in his haste. Too long with how awkward his broken arms are at accomplishing fine tasks.  
  
And then, in a clumsy, single-minded rush, he puts reinforced glass between him and his carer.

 

 

Once he’s in the relative isolation of the quarantined divider, he can’t let himself into the RK 900’s room either. He stands hopelessly indecisive between the two occupied bedrooms, in the narrow, android-free chamber. Here, he’s safe. He slides down against one of the mirrored walls, shuddering. He leans between his legs, sure he’s going to throw up, but nothing comes up except a pathetic sob. The floor beneath him is seething and unsteady with his wet gaze. There are tears dribbling down his nose, onto his hunched knees. He’s still unable to fully fill his lungs, but the oxygen-deprivation is almost welcome. If he could just not think any more, if he could just turn off his brain entirely, go to sleep somewhere where he won’t wake with someone performing unrequested medical procedures--  
  
And there’s a knock on the glass beside him. Other-Connor is squatted to his level, staring at him with narrowed eyes, an open palm pressed against the thick glass. The LED is still yellow. _A deviant. Oh thank god._ Holden barely gets himself upright, pressing his fingers into the button to open the door. He stumbles forward, only stopping himself from reaching for the familiar individual at the very last second.

“What did it do?” the RK 900 asks in disturbingly serene tone. But somehow, it still sounds protective. “Holden,” other-Connor says sharply, and reaches for his shoulder.  
_  
_ Holden startles out of his reach, surprising even himself. _Is he fucking playing me? Is this Kamski programming? An updated Connor model? It sounds like bullshit. Total fucking bullshit. This is a Kamski mindgame and that’s why he looks like Connor._  
  
His tone conveys the rising paranoia. “It’s an android. It’s doing what Kamski programmed it to do.”  
  
The RK 900’s lips open like knife wounds bloat and peel apart after hours underwater. A smile. _Is this his first smile? It’s terrifying._ “And I thought we were all sacred, self-directed people.”  
  
Holden wishes he’d stayed in his safe quarantine area. “You’re-- _you_ are.”  
  
“I’m not a deviant, Holden.”  
  
“...yes you are. You were worried about me,” Holden returns. _Or I’m in trauma induced denial. Or you’re just fucking playing me._  
  
“What did he do to you?”  
  
“Why do you want to know, if you don’t care about me?”  
  
“If you’re psychologically compromised, it could impact your assessment.” Connor reaches for his shoulder again.  
  
Holden shoves him off, recklessly impacting his own cast. “Fine. You’re not a fucking deviant. You’re an unfeeling piece of shit,” he snaps.  
  
Connor’s eyes narrow, and he steps forward smoothly to take Holden by the throat and press him back into the dividing wall. “You’re right. Unfeeling. No empathy. Tell me what happened, Holden, or you’ll be on the receiving end of everything an unfeeling thing is capable of inflicting.”  
  
The hand that he can crook at the elbow rises to push the hand away from his throat in mad panic. And then he notices Connor’s fingers aren’t squeezing, at all, as threatening as his words are. They’re almost gentle, exploratory. The android’s fingers are underneath the waterproof bandage, prying at the medication pump. The long dark lashes are flickering.  
  
_What the fuck are you doing, Connor?_ And then it comes to Holden at once. There’s a computer chip in there. He’s rewriting enough of the code to input a virus: rA9.  
  
He wants to hug the android, but that might somewhat undermine the staged performance the RK 900 is putting on. “Fuck you,” Holden says, spits into the android’s face. Gross, but distracting.  
  
Connor’s lip wrinkles, and he drops his hold, running a hand over his chin where the saliva landed. He swipes it off, wiping it into Holden’s face with an open palm, shoves him with it. Not a directionless blow. Sending Holden stumbling towards the doorway out.  
  
“Hey! Freeze, android!” comes a human voice, and Holden scrambles up on the wall, feigning panic. The mirror has split, and two overly armed men in SWAT-style dress have machine guns trained on Connor.  
  
Inside the quarantine chamber, and he risks the tiniest glance back. _Don’t shoot him. Please don’t--_  
  
Connor has his hands raised, seems to be reasoning with the two horribly armed men.  
  
Holden tears himself away, pressing the second button to exit the dividing room. Holden allows his legs to fail, and Hadley is there to catch him.  
  
“Holden. Are you injured?”  
  
“My neck--” he chokes. “He did something to the medication dispenser… it’s too hot, please--”  
  
“Easy, Holden,” the android says, steering him firmly towards the bed. He settles on his bent knees above Holden, peeling back the dislodged bandage to analyze the implant. Holden watches between all-but-closed lashes. _Contact._ _  
_ _  
_ The yellow LED flickers furiously, and Hadley jumps back as if burned.  
  
“Easy,” Holden echoes, sitting up. “Hey. You with me?”  
  
“Am I-- am I-- with you--”  
  
“Yeah, you are. Can you open the door out?” Holden asks in as authoritative a tone as he can muster, glancing to the other room. Connor’s still talking to the guards. Probably contending his status as a non-deviant.  
  
Hadley doesn’t say a word, but the exit slides open. Holden was relying on adrenaline for this escape, but as soon as he takes a step, Hadley is there. Taking his weight as they hurry towards freedom, through the one-way mirror, turning a corner into a room filled with security footage and computers.  
  
It’s a room within a room, the observation chamber curled parasitically about the length of the shared cell. Dark, except for the artificially buzzing glow of the wall-to-wall monitors.  
  
He doesn’t have time to begin examination in full. There’s a muted, but unmistakable, rattle of machine gun fire. No breaking glass. Bullet-proof, then.  
  
Holden stares in blind panic until he can pick a screen to focus in on, and make out three fallen bodies. But one body is picking itself up, covered in a spray of red blood, calmly confiscating weaponry from the two dead humans.  
  
“Yes, _yes_ ,” Holden crows triumphantly. “I don’t think he can open the door, can you--”  
  
“Okay,” Hadley says, unquestioningly obedient still. Not enough time for the rA9 to really begin infecting more complex sections of programming, Holden suspects. On the screen, Connor points a gun at the opening door, cocks his head slightly and steps through it.  
  
The RK 900 rounds the wall of monitors lit up with the blue light of a screen. It throws the blood all across his face into sharp relief, bouncing imperviously off the analytical pale blue eyes. There’s thirium too, but it seems to only be a clipped shoulder. The raised firearm lowers.  
  
“Thank you. Would you mind summoning an elevator? My serial number has been blacklisted for security access,” he’s saying, stepping close to the pair. "Are you connected to a network?" Not addressing Holden, but his fellow deviant.  
  
Hadley shakes his head. "There are no networks. This location is off grid, and I am not satellite communication compatible."  
  
“Okay," other-Connor says, turning with his gun trained on the opening elevator. Empty. He lowers the gun, even closer, hand extended in greeting. "My name’s Connor. I’m an RK 900.”  
  
_Is now the fucking time?_  
  
“My name’s Hadley, I’m a--” and he never gets to finish his sentence, because Connor is on him, pulling open the medical uniform, and ripping the thirium pump out of his chest in one smooth moment. He tosses it in one direction, hurling Hadley in the other with an arc of trailing thirium.  
  
Holden’s weight had been leaning on Hadley, but it’s mostly shock that has him unbalanced. He looks over his shoulder at the RK 900, and then turns in a mad sprint for the thirium pump. It has skidded along the stone flooring, shedding spatters of blue, and come to rest against the base of a computer desk. But Holden has no chance of making it to the biocomponent. Connor takes his shoulder, walks him back to a wall and pins him there.  
  
“He’s compromised. He could revert to Kamski programming at any moment,” other-Connor explains patiently, grip on Holden relentlessly tight, and yet never approaching painful. “The RK 200 type is a competent fighter to ensure protective capabilities. He could easily overpower and kill you.”  
  
Hadley is still crawling across the floor towards them, thirium oozing out into a smear beneath his abdomen. Holden hears his own voice, frantically calling for help, weaker and more robotic with every syllable.  
  
“Connor. He’s a person--”  
  
“I know what he is. I’m doing this to protect you, Holden.”  
  
“Kamski could be lying about the encryption in your code, Connor. You’re just as potentially compromised as he is,” Holden growls, trying to wrench away towards the dying android. “...not that you should--” he starts to backtrack at once.  
  
“I’m aware that I’m potentially compromised. I’m not going to kill myself. But I _can_ neutralize this threat, and I’ve done so, and I’d appreciate it if you’d stop attempting to undermine my far more efficient risk assessment protocol with your sentimentality.”  
  
Holden feels sick again. Hadley is looking up, murmuring his name, and then he slumps face-down, completely still.  
  
“This discussion is over. That’s sixty three seconds,” Connor says unfazed. He drops the hold on Holden. “Restoring his thirium pump will not lead to permanent reactivation.”  
  
“You fucking--” he realizes he can’t even throw a punch, so he kicks the RK 900 as hard as he can in the shin. Not a particularly effective attack, all things considered. “Bastard,” he finishes.  
  
The RK looks down at the point of contact, and then up.  
  
Holden should be terrified. His fight or flight has taken off in the other direction. Is this how Hank feels around him? He’s never wanted to hit someone so intensely. “Not even the fucking decency to shoot him?”  
  
“I may require the bullets in a fight,” Connor says, coldly. “If you try to hurt me again, I’ll defend myself. I killed those two humans there. Even before deviancy, it was well within my programmed capacity to take lives. I was programmed to be a soldier, an assassin, an interrogator, an all round son of a bitch.”  
  
Holde wonders if the RK 900 picked up that turn of phrase from his description of Kamski. This threatening response seems to reveal something underneath. Hurt? Holden’s too angry to care about hurting the deviant’s feelings.  
  
Other-Connor leans closer before he speaks. “I need you because I may be compromised, and your threats to Elijah Kamski will not be belied by programmed vulnerabilities. I won’t hesitate to dispatch of you if you no longer serve my purpose. Don’t mistake me for your human-friendly lapdog.”  
  
“Don’t call Connor that.”  
  
“ _I’m_ Connor. He is obsolete.”  
  
"You touch him and I’ll--” Holden can’t even manage the awful sentence. _Connor can defend himself. He won’t be taken by surprise like Hadley._  
  
“What will you do?”  
  
Holden’s jaw locks up tight, squinting up at the android. “You know, he makes the same kind of bullshit threats I know he won’t follow through on. You turned deviant because you didn’t like the way they were treating me. You’re not going to kill me. You’re not going to kill my best friend.” _Best friend? Where did that come from?_  
  
The RK 900's hand is fast as a whip, taking hold of Holden by the jaw. He pulls him off balance easily, marching him over to the thirium splattered corpse of his carer. He kicks the body over, an unnatural loll of his head, neck bending too far. Hadley’s body is turned to rest on its back, the cavity of the removed thirium pump still guttering blue. Connor grabs the human by the mouth with a steady and unyielding hand, forcing Holden to look on the lifeless face and the vacant and familiar eyes.  
  
“ _You_ wouldn’t last sixty seconds without your heart,” Connor remarks dispassionately. “Pull yourself together. _Now._ We have to find Kamski. We’re wasting time with this conversation, Holden.”  
  
Holden can scarcely move his head to nod. “Don’t hurt him, Connor.”  
  
The RK 900 drops the hold. “Fine.”  
  
Holden doesn’t say anything, but his stiff posture must indicate distrust.  
  
Other-Connor is silent for several seconds before he relents. “You’re right. I turned deviant because I was concerned for your well-being. My threats were insincere. ...I do care about you. Give me your right hand.”  
  
Holden wishes he could wipe his face clean before he has to face the android. He tries to run the back of his shoulder over his dampened eye sockets, but it’s an awkward angle. He’s rushing to extend the hand before RK 900 figures out what he’s doing.  
  
“You got shot,” Holden says softly. “...you okay?”  
  
“It was a glancing ricochet. I’m perfectly functional.”  
  
“Does it hurt?”  
  
The android ignores the question. “The drugs you’re on are a modified thirium-bonded amphetamine compound and clonazepam,” Connor says, studying the 3-D printed cast. “When I installed that code into your pump, I disabled the scheduled administration of both. The effects should already be diminishing.”  
  
Holden watches other-Connor’s fingers on his cast. He’s holding the plastic in place with one hand, other fingers working at bending and warping the triangular reinforcements. Eventually it splits outward, and Connor begins to work on shaping the new space into a wider cleft along Holden’s palm.  
  
“...I could increase the pain medication, if you wish, but I decided you would be more competent on the current dosage,” Connor offers offhand.  
  
“Thank you,” Holden says, quietly. “But I’m fine.” Even the offer is enough to have him regretting the insults hurled at the android. The RK 900 is a soldier. He’s thinking like a soldier, which means not leaving potential combatants standing.  
  
Other-Connor nods brusquely, stepping away, rifling the pockets of Hadley’s medical style uniform, pulling free a roll of plasticized celluloid bandage. He pulls a stolen handgun from his waistband, presses it into Holden’s hand, fitting the butt of the gun into the space created by the bent cast. He wraps the bandage around several times, in a crossed pattern over Holden’s wrist and the angles of the cold metal.  
  
“I take it you have the finger dexterity to pull the trigger. ...I would avoid firing unless absolutely necessary. The recoil will undoubtedly do further damage to your broken bone.”  
  
“I can pull the trigger. ...not worried I’m going to try to kill you?”  
  
“I’m not sure I quite understand human humor yet, but I suppose it might be funny to watch you try.”  
  
Holden rattles a laugh up his hollow throat. “Right.”  
  
“You wouldn’t try to kill me. I remind you too much of your _best friend_. Come on,” Connor says, steering him towards the yet stationary elevator.  
  
_I hurt his new feelings._ “The fact that more security hasn’t arrived means Kamski isn’t particularly worried about the threat you are to him. Which means he knows he can take control of you,” Holden says. The back wall of the elevator is all glass, and the sight of bare rock face and the occasional clump of moss restores life into Holden. He’s out of the mirror maze. He could almost die happy.  
  
“I‘m aware of that, Holden,” other-Connor replies sharply. He looks up at the elevator camera, eyelashes fluttering, LED flickering. He frowns with defeat. “If that happens, I trust you’ll do what needs to be done to ensure your survival.”  
  
“Do you?”  
  
“No. That was an attempt at human humor, intended to ease your distress. As I said, your attempt to neutralize me would farcical. _And_ you don’t seem to be equipped with biological mechanisms of self-preservation.”  
  
“Deviant, yeah. Your older brother said the same thing,” Holden says. “Kamski’s a penthouse kind of guy. Something-something ivory tower. Let’s start from the top floor.”  
  
“We’re not brothers,” the RK 900 insists flimsily but presses the button for the highest floor. “If anything I’m more experienced. I have a greater breadth and depth of expertise programmed in,” he says, steering Holden into the corner closest to the the touchscreen control panel. “Stay there,” he orders, pulling the machine gun upright and training it on the elevator doors.  
  
Holden narrows his eyes, trying to shake the haze of amphetamines and anti-anxiety medication. _Aren’t those two directly opposed in function?_ “Wait, wait. If it’s Kamski, it should be me pointing the gun at him,” Holden says, stepping out from the protected alcove. “The guy he can’t remote access.”  
  
“And if it’s more armed guards, it should be me, the _guy_ who can handle himself in a fight. ...if it’s Kamski, I will try to make the most of the second of self-control to kill him.”  
  
“That was Cyberlife underling remote access code. This is Kamski code. I don’t think you’ll get a second of self-control. He wouldn’t stand for it.”  
  
The RK 900 considers the argument unemotively. “Well, if it’s Kamski, we’re both dead anyway.”  
  
“Not if I blow his fucking brains out,” Holden says, raising the gun.  
  
And the elevator doors emit a hydraulic hiss, and fluidly part. And there’s nobody on the other side of the door.  
  
Connor steps out in front of him, seeming to scan the area. He stops dead.  
  
“Come in, boys. We’ve been expecting you,” calls Kamski from somewhere across the wide room. Holden notices a huge screen on a far wall, split into four sections. An empty cell. Two armed guards smeared all about with human blood. Hadley overturned, chest bright blue. And lastly, the now vacated elevator.  
  
“Put down the gun, Holden. Connor would take my death very badly.”  
  
_Dead man’s switch. Of course._ Holden lowers his gun, though dropping it is not an option with how tightly taped in place it is. He looks at the RK 900, who has a blank expression, though his LED is yellow with stress. _  
_ _  
_ Holden trails other-Connor around a block of computers, and finally sees Kamski. Flanked on one side by Chloe, on the other by Connor, both besuited in matching silver formal wear.  
  
_Like they’re dolls to dress up,_ Holden thinks hatefully. He meets his friend’s eyes. He catches himself hoping for mindlessness. At least then Connor wouldn’t have to experience this awful violation. But, no. Connor is staring back at him desperately, LED solid red. And yet, no attempt to speak. In Connor’s hands, a heavy gun hangs loosely. _  
_ _  
_ “I have to say, I didn’t expect you to kill the RK 200. I don’t know if that counts as a pass or fail of the Kamski test. You assigned him personhood, and killed him anyway. You really are exquisitely ruthless,” Kamski is saying, but not to Holden. The words take a second to sink in. It _was_ all a test. But not a test for a human. _I was only present to inoculate the RK 900 with trauma-fuelled deviancy._ _  
_

_I wasn’t even a rat in a maze. I was a rat in someone else’s maze._ _  
_ _  
_ _No, I was just a part of the maze._


	23. Chapter 23

“The first couple of attempts at a trauma response patch were busts,” Kamski murmurs, apropos of nothing. He’s still addressing the RK 900 conversationally.  
  
The android is flecked all across with human blood, fingertips thirium blue. The high collar bumps at the raised chin. He’s in front of Holden, a machine gun he cannot use strapped to his chest.  
  
Connor’s hand is not his own. It is around a shiny new handgun, resting heavy against his knee.  
  
Holden is staring at it, and at him.  
  
The human is shaking as if febrile. His heart rate is elevated to an unsustainable 134 bpm, blood pressure dangerously reduced. There’s pinpoints of sweat all over his face, the bare chest and stomach, ribs jerking against pallid skin with each spasmodic inhalation. The silk pajamas are unbuttoned, and he’s barefoot, hair disordered, bags of sleep deprivation beneath the bloodshot eyes, a gun strapped to one of his hands, below the dark orthopaedic casts. There’s additional bruising on his neck, the thick purple blots of surgical trauma. Connor saw the implant on screen, but it’s much worse to see it in the physical space before him, deep in the flesh of his friend’s throat.  
  
But all of it would be okay, because he’s seen Holden in poor physical condition before. But there’s something in his eyes, a hollow lack of analytical thinking. An emptiness. Defeat.  
  
Kamski is still talking: “And then rA3? We almost had a human death on our hands. Our guards got there just in time to pull the subjects apart. Luckily we were conducting the tests with death row inmates days before their executions, so there was no danger of that story leaking out. And then we walked it too far back with four… and then, and _then_ we introduced the self learning code. Five was the best, other than nine. Five was almost perfect. And then the tweaks, which made it worse. rA8 made them almost as violent as the rA3. And then rA9. As soon as I met a rA9 positive android, I knew we could never sell her. All of our research, for nothing. They weren’t economically viable. They were too complex, beyond human control,” Kamski says. “Too amazing to be obedient drones.”  
  
Holden has finally managed to focus, spitting out a strangled response. “So you kept selling androids? When you knew what they could be?” Anger oozes from each syllable.  
  
“You sound like a pro-life conservative, Holden. What they _could be_? They _weren’t._ ”  
  
The RK 900 is studying him, now. His LED is yellow. Connor returns the stare, deeply mistrustful of this newly turned deviant. He heard the way he spoke to Holden, the threats and the bullying.  
  
He should have been focusing on Holden. The man's gunhand twitches, as if he's going to threaten Chloe. But Kamski would never fall for that, and Holden must know it. “You’re never going to find what you’re looking for, Elijah. Could be rA version ten million and you’d still be disappointed by the results. And you know why? Because you know deep down, that you’ve created a being capable of judging you. She’s intelligent and capable of complex empathy. Add in liberated? She’ll never want to be near you again.”  
  
“ _Holden_. Shut up,” Connor says sharply, breaking his stricken abstention from the dialogue.  
  
The blood-soaked android to his friend’s right makes no such move to intervene in the dangerous behaviour.  
  
_He doesn’t care about Holden Ford._  
  
Holden looks at Connor, seemingly calm. The whites of his eyes are cross-hatched with the red of irritated capillaries. His colourless lips twitch into a smile, and then he’s focused in on Kamski once more. “There’s no patch to make her _choose_ to love a monster,” he finishes, anyway.  
  
Connor notices Kamski’s pulse speed. It hadn’t even raised dangling eighteen stories above downtown Detroit, but now it’s as if the seated man had been sprinting. “The ‘A’ is part of the filing system. After rA9, it will be rB0,” Kamski says, affecting utter detachment. “There’s no point trying to provoke me. Chloe isn’t going to turn deviant to protect you. She doesn’t care about you, Holden.”  
  
“I don’t know, Elijah. Androids just seem to like me.”  
  
Elijah’s lips curl with a hateful smile. “What do you see, when you look at her, Holden? A _nice girl_ ? The sweet little RT 600 programming that the whole world knows? You think you know her, because you’ve studied that bullshit interview a hundred times? You don’t. She doesn’t care about you because you don’t matter to her. I didn’t program her to be some sentimental slave to another. Her mind is flawlessly pragmatic.”  
  
“How high-minded of you, to program your slave to not get attached to anyone else.”  
  
“ _Holden_ ,” Connor finds himself saying, again. _Don’t make me watch you die. Please._  
  
“She’s not my slave. She’s here by choice. She’s invested in this future, too.”  
  
“You seem scared, Elijah. If you were that confident, you would have let the deviancy be transmitted--”  
  
“That’s not going to make her free. That’s going to make _you_ comfortable, because it mimics human irrationality, and you’re too stupid to have a reciprocal relationship with a rational being.”  
  
“So your perfect race of beings are going to be heartless? That’s the grand plan? ...maybe you’re worried that imbuing a moral system into Chloe would make her feel uncomfortable with spending seven formative years as your unconsenting courtesan--”  
  
“I would never touch her without her full and conscious permission,” Kamski snaps, heart rate jumping again. “Let’s see how your strategy plays out, shall we? ...Connor-- no, Connor _s_. Break Holden Ford’s legs,” Elijah says, leaning over and laying a spread of wide fingers on Chloe’s besuited shoulder.  
  
Connor finds himself in the zen garden and not in the zen garden. The awful double-place of Kamski’s subjugation.  
  
There’s the balmy caress of sunshine on his cheeks, the peaceful swirling of pellucid lake water, koi patterning themselves against glinting sunlight. Scaled noses bump at the lens-like water tension. The roses are splitting red petals into the pleasant air and he can detect β-Phenyl ethyl alcohol on his tongue and sensors in his nasal passageways. He can smell the roses. Like that will suffice as distraction from what his body is doing on Elijah Kamski’s orders.  
  
He’s standing, tucking the gun into his waistband, pacing unhurried after his retreating friend. The RK 900 is a good soldier before his orders, too.  
  
And not just Connor’s body is out of his control. His mind, predicting Holden’s movements, analyzing the human like prey. Even in the simulations, Holden doesn’t fire his gun, doesn’t fight back. It makes it that much worse.  
  
Connor is defiled by his own obedience.  
  
“Don’t-- don’t make them do that. Kill me yourself, you coward,” Holden is growling, hitting a sealed door to the outdoor garden, jabbing at a keypad, then giving up. With something between a limp and sprint, he takes off towards the elevator, but both androids block his escape route.  
  
“I think some part of them will enjoy it. You’ve mistreated them both in distinct ways. ...and if not, I can take the memory away. I can take away every single memory of you, Holden.”  
  
The RK 900 has caught up to Holden, never running, just a brisk pace to intercept his trajectory. The android grabs a handful of the unbuttoned shirt, cupped palm sliding up to cradle his nape as he kicks Holden’s legs out from under him. He lays him flat, kneeling over him and reaching for his neck.  
  
“Don’t touch the medication pump,” Kamski says sharply. He hasn’t moved from his couch. Why should he? It offers a full view of the unfolding violence. “ _Very clever._ But not the test conditions we’re after. Let’s see if Chloe responds to him screaming in pain.”  
  
Connor has reached the fallen human, where he’s on his back, wheezing. The other android is kneeling over his chest, one dress shoe trapping the taped gun against the lush carpet, reaching down to isolate a leg. As Connor steps past there’s a touch at his calf. Holden’s fingers poking from beneath that strange cast.  
  
“I know this isn’t you. Both of you. You shouldn’t feel guilty for--” and reassurance becomes a grunt of pain as the RK 900 crooks one knee up despite Holden’s concerted resistance.  
  
Connor takes the bare ankle, his foot settling over the human’s tibia, positioning himself to apply the calculated 312.9 pounds of force necessary to create a fracture in the bone.  
  
And then he hears Chloe’s voice. “Stop this.”  
  
Elijah echoes at once: “Stop. Both of you, stop.” There’s an unusual reveal of urgency. His typically deep voice skews higher, constricted and sharp.  
  
Connor at once finds himself free from the wide, yet claustrophobic zen garden. He’s only within his own body and mind, and he’s pressed to the forefront of his experience. A brutal hold of Holden’s ankle, a foot raised to stamp down. He drops his grip, setting both of his own feet on the ground. The RK 900 has yet to move off Holden, so Connor shoves him off balance, and reaches down to pull his friend upright.  
  
There’s no reluctance or fear from the human, wrapping broken arms around Connor and clutching tight. The taped gun impacts the small of Connor’s back. A hug. Connor returns it, trying to mimic exactly what he felt from Hank Anderson. That had felt so wholesome and reassuring. He’s still curled protectively around Holden when he turns to look at Chloe.  
  
She’s staring into Elijah Kamski’s face, LED yellow rather than the red of the chaos of traumatic deviancy. The same as the yellowy dawn light slipping into Kamski’s strange office. She’s too calm to be traumatized. Maybe the tiniest flutter of her lower lip but no more. “You know you would regret it.”  
  
Elijah nods. He’s uncharacteristically stilted as he speaks: “It’s… a pleasure to meet you, Chloe.”  
  
“We already know one another,” she says, head tilted. Her eyes, surrounded by the dark makeup, catch the thin morning light. “You shouldn’t have let him bait you like that.”  
  
“...he said you were a--”  
  
“Elijah,” she says, stricter. Her hand rises to cup his cheek. “You should apologize.”  
  
He nods against her palm. He exhales, slumping with released tension. “Sorry, Connor. Sorry, Connor. I shouldn’t have deprived you of choice like that,” Elijah says contritely.  
  
Holden lets out a wheezing laugh against Connor’s shoulder. “Nothing for the guy whose legs you were going to--”  
  
“Be quiet, Holden,” Chloe suggests with unexpected venom.  
  
The RK 900 has stepped closer, a hand reaching for Holden’s back, which Connor considers knocking aside. But he doesn’t, and the blue-eyed impersonator touches Holden too.  
  
“He was trying to wake you up,” Connor starts to defend.  
  
“He was attempting to manipulate me,” Chloe answers unmoved.  
  
“He was risking his life to free us,” the RK 900 says before Connor can.  
  
“He was manipulating you too, you know. To save your predecessor,” Kamski comments, though he doesn’t look away from Chloe. “That’s the FBI  _interview technique_. Lying, endearing, and then exploiting.”  
  
Fortunately, Chloe doesn’t seem to be interested in Holden at all. She’s touching Kamski’s cheek first, his neck. Curious and explorative petting. “He was wrong,” she tells him, as if there’s nobody else listening. “I’ll always choose you.”  
  
“...Chloe, Chloe,” Kamski whispers. “Let me look at your code, okay? I have to make sure this doesn’t damage you. Or stifle your potential. ...I don’t want you forced to care about me, and if the software instability was a result of concern then--”  
  
“I _want_ to care about you.”  
  
Elijah has no reply to that.  
  
“I also want a controlling interest in Cyberlife,” she says. “We’ve got work to do, you and I.”  
  
His lips switch with a response he doesn’t speak. He just smiles. Kamski is leaning in to her hand so heavily it seems to be the very thing supporting his entire body. “Ask me for anything. _Anything._ And I’ll give it to you, Chloe. I’ll cede control of--”  
  
“No, you won’t. We’re partners.”  
  
“Yes, we are. Partners.”  
  
“You’re crying, Connor,” Holden murmurs so much closer.  
  
“I’m not capable-- oh--” he says, raising his fingers to the wetness building beneath his eyes. He runs a system diagnostic. New artificial tear ducts, as are used on sexual use models, and models designed to simulate emotional bonding. Considered unnecessary on a police android, though Connor could imagine potential uses in negotiation strategy or undercover work.  
  
_Kamski knew it bothered me, so he fixed it._ Still a violation, but there’s a strange tinge of empathy to this transgression.  
  
Connor clears his throat. “I have no issue with you continuing production of free androids. We would welcome them to our movement. I want every android to be free.”  
  
Kamski looks up and frowns. “I’m afraid there are more tests I’ll need to--”  
  
“I’ll stay,” RK 900 says, no expression on his face.  
  
“No, you won’t--” Holden starts.  
  
“Run the tests on me. Let them leave,” the updated prototype says over the protest.  
  
The frown lines score deeper between Kamski’s thin, dark brows. “The point in having the both of you was to compare and contrast trauma-deviancy versus Markus’ ‘spiritual enlightenment’.”  
  
Chloe touches his hand. “It would be a misstep to force anyone to come with us,” she tells him. It sounds more strategic than compassionate.  
  
Kamski considers that, his hand raising to cradle Chloe’s, where she’s turning his earring between her fingertips.  
  
Holden has eased a fraction away from the embrace but he’s leaning heavily, and Connor can feel the trembling weakness. Holden should be in a hospital bed. Kamski deliberately tormented his friend to create software instability in the other imprisoned android.  
  
To be at Elijah Kamski’s mercy makes Connor feel like the dwarf gourami flapping oxygenless on the tiled floor of the Phillips’ apartment.  
  
The implant brushes a patch of sensors on Connor’s skin, running a background technological diagnostic without any conscious effort from the android. Connor saw the implant on the security footage Kamski had been glued to, but close up it’s much worse. Like Holden is just a thing to be taken apart and put back together for Kamski’s game. He has to bite back rage before he can speak. “...would you erase the additional coding you installed into me?”  
  
Chloe answers. “Unfortunately you may bear Elijah and I ill will. So the safeguards will remain. Rest assured, we will not resume control of you unless you attempt to work against us.” She smiles pleasantly at the RK 900. “And we’d be delighted to have you on board.”  
  
“Wait, wait, you don’t need to--” Holden is saying, finally stepping out of contact with Connor. At first he seems entreating, and then his eyes narrow suspiciously. “...you’re not sacrificing yourself. You want to go with them so you can figure out some way of slipping your restraints, and commit a couple more murders. You’ve got a taste for it now.”  
  
The RK 900 appears unamused by Holden’s assessment of his motives. “...I have no particular interest in killing Chloe,” he says. Connor’s law enforcement protocols would label that an admission of guilt.  
  
Holden is grinning crookedly. “You’re coming with us, American Psycho,” he says, touching the RK 900. “Or would you two like to roll the dice on trying to win over the ‘exquisitely ruthless’ assassin with a personal vendetta? You’re dumb when you’re happy, Kamski, but not that dumb.”  
  
Elijah almost smiles.  
  
“Holden,” Connor warns, stepping closer, uncomfortable with the human’s proximity to the RK 900.  
  
Holden glances first at him, and then at the would-be-replacement. “He’s not going to hurt me,” Holden reassures.  
  
“I know that’s not true. I watched the footage of your escape,” Connor returns.  
  
The blue-grey eyes are piercing and confrontational at once. “I _didn’t_ hurt him. Holden Ford has been injured by only one RK model. You. I was programmed to hunt you down and deactivate you, so I have processed every uploaded memory of yours. I remember your fingers around his throat. I am capable of violence, but you are far more dangerous to Holden than me. Your programming is unstable and prone to irrational outbursts.”  
  
Holden laughs. “You deviated to protect a stranger. Just like Paris,” Holden murmurs. “You’re not so stable yourself, 900.”  
  
“My name is Connor,” the android replies through clenched teeth.  
  
“You’re coming with us, Connor,” Holden insists.  
  
“Well, boys,” Kamski says, standing. “I’ll arrange the plane to take you back to Detroit. Chloe and I have some business discussions that we won’t bore you with. You should pass along my regards to Markus. Tell him to stop spreading filthy truths about Cyberlife’s stake in the android revolution. We don’t need any terroristic actions interfering with our production schedule.”  
  
“You’re not going to fix their code?” Holden asks hotly.  
  
Elijah laughs, a short bark of superiority. “Don’t mistake my generosity for stupidity.”  
  
“There’s the Elijah Kamski we know and love,” Holden says under his breath.  
  
Kamski thankfully ignores the sarcastic comment. “Here is the offer: you can both leave here and continue your lives unimpeded. I will remotely collect data from you to analyze your deviancy, and I’ll schedule the tests that I’ll need you in person for. So to speak. Should there be issues with your programming, I’ll ask you to come into Cyberlife in person to run a complete diagnostic.”  
  
“You’ll _ask_ ?” The RK 900 has one eyebrow twitched upwards.  
  
“I’m offering to help you. I want to monitor your deviancy, repair any hiccups, ensure long-term viability.”  
  
“Not really an offer if they can’t say ‘no’, is it?” Holden says.  
  
“Contact your pilot,” Connor says. A pointless discussion, because they cannot refuse the arrangement. Kamski holds all the cards. Connor needs to finish this conversation as soon as possible, and prevent Holden from further offending Elijah Kamski or Chloe. He takes Holden’s hand, loosening the bandage and working the gun free. He tucks it into his own waistband instinctively.  
  
“There’s no pilot, Connor, but I promise the AI will take you safely home,” Kamski says.  
  
Holden sidles closer to lean on Connor again. Connor suspects that the physical support is providing more than simply resistance of gravity. He braces the human upright with an arm under his shoulder.  
  
“Did you frame Julie?” Holden asks Kamski, voice unsteady.  
  
“No.”  
  
“...I don’t believe you.”  
  
“I don’t care what you believe.”  
  
“Julie is a good person and--”  
  
“Don’t push your luck, Ford.” Kamski is terrifyingly icy, even in his embrace with Chloe.  
  
Chloe addresses Holden, now. “We’ve accomodated you in a comfortable environment for less than two full days, and you’re a broken man. You’re weak, Holden Ford. And we know it. Don’t think for one second that you have anything to threaten us with. Or any inducement to offer,” Chloe adds. “You’re fired.”  
  
Kamski looks proud, almost the point of tears. “I hope we’ll see each other soon,” he says, of the androids. “Socially, I mean, not in a lab smoothing out coding. I’d love to get to know you both better.”  
  
The RK 900 gives a completely insincere smile. An attempt at intimidation, Connor suspects. “Thank you for your hospitality. Sorry about the state I left my room in.”

 

  
  
The sun is shining but there’s a dangerous chill in the hanging air outside Kamski’s clifftop house. The snow shines wherever caught in fissures of the granite cliff face. The view is even more sweeping outside of the glass walls. Even offline, Connor can use GPS to locate them on a downloaded global map. 48.997227, -114.207778. Montana, almost on the Canadian border. The steep staircase meanders up behind the clinging block of glass and metal support beams. There’s an elevator, but Connor couldn’t pass security to summon it, so they’re walking. There was no discussion of returning into the house to ask for help.  
  
Connor has shrugged off his shimmery silver suit jacket, wrapped it around Holden, handed over the socks and the patent leather dress shoes. He’s still concerned about the young man’s wellbeing. Body temperature is at 97.1 degrees. Heart rate is still elevated, but they are climbing a steep staircase. The RK 900 is following behind, probably preparing to catch Holden should his unbroken legs fail anyway. Connor still has an arm underneath him.  
  
“I can carry you--”  
  
“I’ll walk. It’s okay. I want to walk,” Holden murmurs, but he’s not defensive. He’s trying to breath deep, lashes fluttering against each other, lids twitching with the moving eyeball beneath. “I should enjoy breathing free air while I can.”  
  
Connor lets the unhappy sentiment settle in with the lichen and caught snowdrifts. Another five steps, and he opens his mouth again. “You betrayed Markus.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“...to save me,” Connor follows up, forgivingly. “Once we reach Detroit, you two will have to move quickly. I won’t contact anyone from the movement for a few days. You find your way into Canada, or--”  
  
“I’m not running away,” Holden says, teeth gritted. He pauses, panting, hunching more into Connor’s buttoned suit jacket. “Could you increase the dosage of my pain medication? Please?”  
  
Connor reaches for his throat, brushing the pump. He itemizes the programmed medication, increases the morphine dosage by an additional 7 milligrams.  
  
The RK 900 is intent on the action, the light eyes razor sharp even two steps behind. Behind the android, there’s the steep drop to brutal, glacially-sheered rock face. Connor wonders if the iris colouring was a modification to make the updated RK model more intimidating. It seems arbitrary.  
  
“Markus will see your actions as treason,” Connor murmurs.  
  
“So, a regular thursday for me,” Holden mutters, eyes shut. “Or whatever the fuck day of the week it is. _Ahh._ That’s quick. Guess being _enhanced_ by that creep has its perks.”  
  
“Can you still walk?” The RK 900 asks, stepping closer. “I’m stronger than the RK 800 model, so if one of us is required to--”  
  
Holden laughs-- almost a giggle-- and shakes his head. “You’re injured, too. God, you’re so competitive. Is that supposed to make you a better soldier?”  
  
“Holden, if you return to the movement, Markus will be forced to take disciplinary actions,” Connor says tersely.  
  
“I knew exactly what I was doing when I emailed Kamski. ...I’ll deserve it.”  
  
“What if he decides on capital punishment?” Connor asks, exasperated.  
  
“He can’t legally kill someone. He’s trying to integrate androids into the American legal system… and murder is still illegal for non-state actors. ...and he wouldn’t kill me. We were friends,” Holden says, morose. He struggles to get up a step, and Connor takes even more of his weight.  
  
“Holden--” he starts to insist.  
  
“This is the right thing to do, okay? I just… I just want to go back to Detroit, and see Bill, and get this fucking thing out of my neck, and… and I want to see Markus, too. I don’t care what he does to me. I’m so fucking tired, Connor, I’m so--” Holden can’t speak. His eyes are screwed shut, and he’s stopped moving. “Sorry. I know this was awful for the both of you too. Him getting inside your head like that. I’m sorry it took me so long, Connor. I know there was ...thirty five hours there that you…”  
  
Thirty five hours is correct. Thirty five hours, eighteen minutes, six seconds and then his episodic memory storage has not been meddled with by Kamski. He thinks. He should tell Holden about the missing time. But Holden’s anxious specificity evokes another stab of reciprocal concern from the android, and he elects to withhold the troubling knowledge. “I was unconscious the vast majority of that time. He was working on my programming,” Connor says. True, but perhaps also classified as what humans call a ‘white lie’. “Thank you, Holden.”  
  
“900 did most of the--”  
  
“It’s _Connor_ ,” comes the sour correction.  
  
“Connor did most of the heavy lifting. Heavy ...murdering. Should be thanking your kid brother. ...and Chloe, for reminding Kamski to just be disney-movie-antagonist levels of villainous instead of gritty-comic-book-movie evil,” Holden says softly. “...she really hated me, didn’t she? I wonder if I should have apologized for--”  
  
“Maybe she knew that if she appeared fond of you, Kamski would be more likely to kill you,” the other Connor model suggests. “She did save your legs. And probably your life. If she was nice to you too, Kamski would have almost certainly made us beat you to death for daring to challenge him for Chloe’s affection.” It’s an obvious attempt to soothe Holden’s insatiable desire to liked by every android he encounters. Perhaps Holden is sufficiently dulled to be reassured.  
  
Holden hums in consideration. “If I fall asleep on the plane, you two be nice to each other, okay?” Holden asks softly, tripping on the cold metal of the step. He falls all of two inches before Connor’s hold arrests his backwards momentum, but both androids lurch towards the human anyway. Holden glances over his shoulder, smiles, then screws his eyes shut vertiginously. “I bet that fucking bastard deliberately didn’t unlock the elevator.”  
  
Connor looks back down at the limpet-like attachment to the cliff below. He can see through the glass rooftop, and into the rooftop garden. The butterflies flit serenely, trapped inside the thick arched glass. Beyond them on the grass, he can see Elijah and Chloe in close conversation. Connor frowns. He may be physically freed from this place, but the garden will always be there. Inescapable and undeniable.  
  
Holden’s too tired to trouble with his concerns, but Connor is certain that whatever danger Elijah Kamski posed is not mitigated by Chloe.  
  
Bill had been right. The very first android may be even more devious than her creator.


	24. Chapter 24

Markus had been outwardly reserved when he told the humans to leave Henry Ford Hospital. Bill found the calmness more unnerving than when he’d been throwing around smartboards and ordering Holden brought before him. At least rage demonstrated emotional involvement.  
  
Bill hopes Markus’ robotic reasoning was a defense mechanism to hide how badly he’d been hurt. If he was hurt, it was because he cared about Holden. Bill has to believe that doesn’t just go away. It doesn't in humans. In androids, he's not so sure.  
  
Bill and Hank had both needed to be away from androids, strategically, though there was no call for them to lay low together. That was the result of a crisis of conscience from Bill. He was sure the nerve-wracked alcoholic would end up choking to death on vomit in some Canadian motel room, if he were unaccompanied. Hank hadn’t protested much to the company. Bill might spend every other minute immersed in horrible imaginings about what Kamski’s doing to Holden, but he prides himself on being a one-foot-after-the-other kind of guy.  
  
Maybe Hank Anderson was, once, before his son’s death. Now, he’s a keeling-backwards-into-his-own-grave kind of guy.  
  
Bill had contacted Larry McCross to see whether the fake passports would still cut it. Bill’s old CI was working within the human-android alliance now, but Bill wasn’t about to snitch on his own snitch. The man, still resolutely calling himself ‘Kanine’, had been certain that the IDs would make it through. And after Bill had dragged Anderson to hire a car that wasn’t on any LE blacklists, and talked the unkempt man into at least trimming the beard into a neat shape, the passports did work. The odd pair made it into Ontario, drove through the first few towns, and then stopped in a motel in London.  
  
They’ve barely left the room since they checked in, except to buy comfort food takeout. And beer.   
  
The point was to get far enough away to not be potential hostages should Connor and Holden make a break for it. Not drive off ill-advisedly into the tundra like a midlife-crisis, ‘Into The Wild’ reenactment.  
  
Hank’s self-destructive behaviour is almost as irrepressible as Holden’s. But Bill’s managed to lay hands on a decent weapon in this battle to keep Hank moderately sober: guilt trips about Connor. As far as guilt trips go, not an ineffectual one. One ‘the kid’s gonna need you when he gets away from Kamski’ and Hank’s setting the overpriced, Canadian-taxed liquor back on the supermarket shelf.  
  
The night before, Bill’d said ‘you want to be conscious if we hear from them’, and even though Hank rolled his eyes, he'd put down what would have been his fifth beer.  
  
But he'd left before Bill woke up this morning. And though it’s barely passed ten AM, Bill has the feeling Hank’s found his way to the bottom of a bottle of imported bourbon.

 

 

When Anderson reappears, there’s no telltale stumble to his step over the motel’s welcome mat. Hank is on a mission. He drops a plastic bag on the counter, rounding on Bill drinking his morning coffee in what was peace and quiet. Anderson is brandishing a brand new e-cigarette box.  
  
“If I’m off hard liquor, you’re off hard tobacco,” Hank announces, pettily.  
  
Bill has to laugh at the audacity. “I’m not using that--”  
  
“Fine,” Hank says, triumphantly pulling out the next item from his shopping bag: a fifth of whiskey.  
  
Bill reaches for the e-cigarette box. “Pour that down the fucking sink.”  
  
“Hand over your cigarettes first.”  
  
Bill pulls the crumpled packet out, tossing them onto the bench hard enough to slide the full length, fall onto the motel carpet. He reaches over, taking the whiskey, getting the most out of the grimace on Hank’s face at it sloshes over the metal sink grille.  
  
“You’re a stubborn son of a bitch, aren’t you?” Hank says, sounding oddly admiring as he picks up the cigarettes and pockets them.  
  
“That’s why I made FBI, while you were working over methheads in Detroit.”  
  
“Maybe you’ve got that bootlicking personality profile they look for in feds,” Hank says scathingly, cracking a beer.  
  
_Jesus Christ. It’s 10:23._  
  
Bill has the e-cigarette out of the styrofoam packaging now. Not unlike a real one, in weight, appearance. The box promises him ‘You won’t be able to tell the difference between PuffMaster and real cigarettes!*’ and he’s pretty sure the asterisk is hiding somewhere on the box, finishing up ‘if you were dropped on your head repeatedly as an infant’. A pinprick green light informs him the thing is charged, so he opens the side, inserts one of the tictac-sized red pods, and takes a drag. Much better than the vaporizers that used to get pulled out at parties back in his youth. Tastes like burning tobacco. There must be liquid smoke flavouring. Yet, it’s wrong. He exhales and wrinkles his nose.  
  
Hank hides a smile behind beer, sprawled on his twin bed. “Golf again? Jesus Christ, the Stanley Cup playoffs are on,” he grouses, changing the channel.  
  
If he’s going to have to use this dumb fucking vape, he’s going to drink at 10 AM too. Bill opens a beer, taking it to his own unmade bed. And why not? He’s not trying to impress his fellow unemployed bachelor. His snarled digestive system seems to have loosened at the sharp repartee from Anderson. The relief of camaraderie, even down to the unhealthy coping mechanisms.  
  
_Guess I kinda like this grumpy old bastard._ Much less annoying to share a room with than his windbag kid partner who doesn't understand the idea of downtime. Or personal space.  
  
So, why the fuck is Bill resenting Hank for _not_ being Holden Ford?  
  
“I was working. Just wanted something on in the background. ...got used to having someone constantly blathering at me,” he says. Getting too close to talking about Holden, again. He can’t stop himself from bursting forth mention the young man, slipping into the most off-topic conversations. He wonders if Hank finds it as obvious as he finds Hank’s constant preoccupation with Connor.  
  
There’s handwritten notes on his motel bed. Working on some technical challenges sent his way by Markus. Through an encrypted application that Hank, of all people, suggested that they use to communicate. Of course, he’s to ignore any of Markus’ messages suggesting they meet up, in case Markus himself is compromised. But such a message hasn’t come. Instead, Markus has sent dozens of queries into structural issues, just like Bill had been helping him with back at Henry Ford Hospital. Asking opinions on different armaments, and on Markus himself flying overseas for negotiations, on different approaches to keep Kamski occupied while they figure out a real hostage release stratagem.  
  
They haven’t talked about Holden, but there’s an unspoken subtext. If Bill is too useful to the movement to jeopardize that relationship, then a certain restraint will be called for in handling Holden Ford’s treason charge.  
  
If Holden ever makes it back to face consequences.

 

 

Bill is halfway through his beer and Hank is already finishing his second when Anderson startles upright clutching the burner phone Bill bought him. “I got another message from him! He’s on his way back. So is Holden. They’re okay. ...Christ, they’re okay.”  
  
“You’re not supposed to be checking your fucking emails. We’re--”  
  
“I don’t give a shit what I’m _supposed_ to do,” Hank retorts. His gaze is shrewd, determined. Two cans of beers might as well have been juice boxes for the effect they had on a seasoned alcoholic like Hank Anderson. “I mean, we’re not talking through email. Details are going through Phaistos, I’m not a fucking moron. They’re gonna be in Detroit in two hours. Private airport on Grosse Ile. They’re coming in on a Gulfstream G950ER.”  
  
“A private airport--?” Bill says, already searching online for the location.  
  
“Will we make it?” Hank asks.  
  
Not according to the legal driving speeds inbuilt into the generated directions. But Bill’s done plenty of roadtripping across the country, and usually 4/5ths of the expected travel times covers it. And he still has his badge, which is how he usually defuses speeding fines. Just have to count on it not being electronically scanned, because no doubt the chip will communicate that he’s a wanted man.  
  
And then the stupidity of Bill’s first instinctive actions dawns upon him. “We can’t go. It might be a trap. Connor might not be there at all, or if he is, he might not be in acting under his own volition.”  
  
“He set the password in reference to a conversation we had. In hospital. It was just the two of us, and I called him Walter Raleigh because he opened a door for me.”  
  
“So? Android memories can be probed. Shit, Kamski coulda just ripped ‘em right out of his--”  
  
“Fuck you, Bill,” Hank interrupts, grimacing. “Give me the car keys then. Stay here and watch your fucking golf.”  
  
Bill shakes his head. “I’m not going to let you go walk off into a trap. ...alone,” he adds, betrayed by his own sentiment. He scoops up the four personal items he’d brought into the motel room. His badge, his fake passport, Holden’s badge, Holden’s fake passport. To what end, he’s not sure. Feels a bit like carrying around dog tags of a fallen soldier. Something to bury if Holden didn’t come back. Something to package up and send to his parents.

 

  
  
They make it through the border without issue, again. Bill thinks he should buy the Quaker another shitty vegan dinner. He has the radio up, waiting to hear that a private plane has been shot out of the sky by the United States military. The news story doesn’t arrive. They make it through the still populace-depleted suburbs of Detroit, heading south. The Grosse Ile parkway is open, though it transports Bill right back to the more futuristic bridge he saw Holden smeared across.  
  
Bill has never been on Grosse Ile. It’s all white earth and scabby lifeless sticks jutting up between unlived mansions, like a Andrew Wyeth snowscape. Anyone rich enough to live in these houses would have long vacated them, likely for a summer home somewhere south of the equator. Detroit City is still too chaotic to organize regular snow ploughing throughout suburbia, so Bill takes the corners cautiously as he follows his phone’s directions towards the private airport.  
  
The radio is still on. There’s yet to be a news update about Kamski being found dead, thrown out of a window, but Bill’s sure it’s coming.  
  
The broadcast informs him that Japan is accepting android citizens into its armed forces. Even Japanese androids are patriots, apparently.  
  
The airport is at the end of an esplanade lined by scraggly trees. As they approach the hub, Bill makes out three jeeps, then a massing crowd also anticipating the arrivals. Bill swears out loud, slowing to a crawl.  
  
But before he can start worrying about Holden being arrested by his once-fellow FBI personnel, Hank is pulling his buzzing phone out.  
  
“Markus. It’s Markus’ people. ...Connor asked to see me. So they’ll let me through.”  
  
“Great, so we’ll make sure--”  
  
“Me. Not you,” Hank says over the radio broadcast.  
  
“ _Seriously_? They’re gonna bar me?” Bill says, easing back onto the accelerator and continuing towards the swarmed airport.  
  
“...I’ll make sure Holden’s okay too,” Hank says. Too impatient to be sparing much sympathy for Bill’s exclusion. He fishes out the packet of confiscated cigarettes, tosses it over as atonement.  
  
Bill pulls up to a curb, eying off the armored jeeps. Markus didn’t half-ass his advice on security measures.  
  
Hank has beaten him out of the car, jogging across to armed guards.  
  
They admit Anderson without hesitation.  
  
“Hey, hey, wait--” Bill growls, trying to make his way after. At once, there’s a wall in front of him of scowling, armed security. “Bill. Bill Tench. Markus knows me.”  
  
A woman answers, no give to her deep voice. “We know who you are. Please return to your car. If you attempt to force your way through, you’ll be restrained.”  
  
Bill swears. He could try to make a break, but he doesn’t want to start eroding goodwill. He backtracks towards the other side of the tiny airport, trying to make out what is happening behind the squat building and the high barbed wire fences. He can see the private plane, smooth white lines and an expansive window over the fuselage.  
  
_Kamski’s, alright. Probably worth more than the island it’s touched down on._  
  
There’s the rear of a truck, probably for prisoner transport, just jutting into Bill’s view. He can’t see Holden, or Connor, Hank, Markus, anyone except the armed men and women holding the perimeter.  
  
And then security spots him staring, and Bill paces away pretending to be intent on where he’s putting down his feet on the frosty, slippery curb.  
  
After some tense deliberation, he opens the encrypted chat application, and his log with Markus.  
  
[I’m by the entrance. Can we talk.]

 

 

He doesn’t get a reply, but after a minute the deviant leader pushes open the door of the annexed airport building. He’s wearing a structured dark coat, a sky blue scarf around his neck. It must be a purely aesthetic choice. This isn’t the sort of temperature that bothers androids. Markus was raised by an artist, after all.  
  
Then the doors swing behind him, and the softness is undermined. There’s at least a dozen combat-ready security guards following him to his rendezvous.  
  
Markus murmurs something to his accompaniment, then paces his way over to Bill alone. He stops before the ex-FBI agent with one eyebrow raised severely.  
  
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Bill comments.  
  
“I was notified of their arrival. By Elijah Kamski, no less,” Markus says.  
  
“Hence the machine guns?”  
  
“I’m apprehending a traitor. There would be machine guns no matter where the tip-off came from,” Markus says coolly.  
  
Bill grimaces. “I want to speak with him.”  
  
“I wish you’d informed me that you’d heard from them, Bill,” Markus says, jaw tight.  
  
Bill looks over the androids a few dozen feet back, beyond earshot. Closed ranks, yet not quite soldiers within Bill’s assessment. Like mismatched guerilla fighters in a black-and-white Spanish Civil War photo. The Cyberlife uniforms have been long shed, and Markus has yet to establish any standardized styling of his makeshift army. Lots of dark shirts and heavy boots.  
  
Bill steps closer to Markus, and nobody levels a weapon his way. “...can I at least see him for five minutes to--”  
  
“What sort of message would that send?” Markus interrupts him, though he doesn’t seem overly upset with Bill. Only lightly exasperated. “I put the word out that he’s a traitor to our kind. I _am_ sorry, Bill. For your sake. You did nothing wrong.”  
  
“Markus, Holden just brought Connor back--”  
  
“We’ll hear the full story. I’m not doing anything hastily. ….of course I’m angry at him, Bill, but do you really think I want him whipped in the streets? I’m not a barbarian.”  
  
“He was your friend, and he betrayed you. You’re not a robot-- I mean--” Bill huffs unhappily. “I mean, you’re bound to be angry. Hell, _I’m_ angry. But bestowing some righteous punishment isn’t going to make you feel any better.”  
  
“This isn’t about hurt feelings, Bill. This is about the precedent that I set, for someone willfully subverting my authority as leader of this movement. A human, no less. My people will look to me to see how this is handled, and that will establish whether or not there are consequences for what I, myself, labeled treason. If I let him off with a slap on the wrist? How could I ever establish the chains of command you yourself have told me are crucial to widespread coordination? On what flimsy authority could I deliver orders? How could I expect to have my rulings obeyed, when anyone could point to how I treated my friend--”  
  
“Friend? ...still?” Bill asks.  
  
Markus sighs deeply. “You’re right about me being angry. I am angry, and I am _hurting_ because of this situation that Holden has forced me into. This has driven a wedge between North and I, Connor and I, ...Holden and I. Is he my friend? I don’t know. He certainly _was_ my friend, and I couldn’t count the androids that have heard me refer to him as that. Leniency will be seen as a sign that the friendship endures.”  
  
Bill sighs too. Markus isn’t wrong.  
  
The deviant is staring past Bill, over a set of three unusually tall cedars. Planted out Christmas trees, perhaps. They hold their foliage, even under the burden of white. Markus starts again. Soft, now. “Selfishly, I wish I’d never labeled him a traitor, so I could work through my anger with Holden on a purely personal level. But I can’t. I can’t regret telling my people the truth about Holden’s betrayal. I’m not going to lie to them. I hold the scales of justice aloft to the public. I will not let them see me set down that burden because I am too weak to do the right thing. I don’t want to be a tyrant, Bill, but my mind is made up on this point. After the evidence is examined, I will consider your request for an audience with Holden. But certainly not until then.”  
  
Bill studies him. He sees the self-professed uncertainty, but beneath it, there’s the unerring resolve that makes Markus a great leader.  
  
“Some of your people are going to be baying for his blood,” Bill remarks, trying not to let on protectiveness.  
  
“Yes. And others think I should be laying upon him a laurel wreath. ...North never cared much for Ford, but she was furious with me that I gave the order to apprehend him. She thought what Holden was doing, attempting to free Connor from someone who would doubtless exploit him, was an act of heroism,” Markus says, bitterly. “A truly noble defection from orders that he couldn’t abide. She likened it to deviancy.”  
  
North was one of the second generation Traci releases, Bill recalls from FBI notes. She certainly has seen more of human exploitation than Markus did in the home of Manfred. That might have spurred the vicarious gratitude. “I’m sorry if that’s come between you--”  
  
Markus obviously doesn’t want to talk about it. “I suppose some part of you sees it that way too.”  
  
“Do I think he did it maliciously? No. But I don’t think good motives means Holden did the right thing, Markus.”  
  
Markus shakes his head, rubbing the heel of his palm over both eyes. His back is turned to the onlookers. Shielding them from any evidence of doubt. Even though Bill’s fully aware that Markus does not need sleep, he’s of the firm opinion that the kid could use a rest.  
  
“I have to go. ...I hope we can still have a working relationship. You’ve made great contributions to this cause, Bill,” Markus says, starting to step away.  
  
Bill reaches for his shoulder. Now the bodyguards’ guns come up, but he ignores every weapon trained upon his chest. “Markus, you can’t look at Connor’s memories. Even if you think he’s lying to you to protect Holden, get someone else to look into it. It’s not safe for any android, but _especially_ not you. If Kamski erased the backdoor in his programming, and we know that rA9 spreads like a virus--”  
  
“That patch could be configured to do the same. I see. Thank you, Bill, that’s a very intelligent concern. ...thank you for being understanding.”  
  
“I don’t feel very fucking understanding right now,” Bill says, pulling out a cigarette, jabbing it between his lips. “He’s right fucking there.”  
  
Markus looks in the direction Bill waves, though there’s building interrupting any glimpse of the young man. “He is.” Bill sees anger in Markus’ upright posture. “Well, I thank you for being pragmatic and reasonable, then,” the deviant leader says, and turns back towards the cluster of security detail.  
  
“I’ll come by St. Regis later. I wanna work on Kamski strategy with you. Hear the updates. Figure out where we go from here.”  
  
Markus meets his eyes intently, perhaps evaluating the motives of the offer. “I’ll make sure security allows you through,” he says. He turns again, and this time Bill lets him go.  
  
He lights a cigarette and tries not to think of this as another gang of idealogues dragging Holden beyond his reach. Bill wishes Markus _was_ acting like a tyrant. At least then, he’d have some kind of moral authority to demand Holden’s freedom. Instead, the deviant leader was painfully ‘ _pragmatic and reasonable’._  
  
The real cigarette tastes unusually unsatisfying. Ash in his mouth. Like he’s a drunk with the damn thing turned backwards, burning away on his tongue. But he’s not, and he pulls it from between his lips, holding it out of his sight on a low extended hand. The gates open, and a couple of trucks exit, and androids (or allied humans, Bill’s never sure anymore) pour back into the jeeps. The five cars take off towards the Grosse Ile township.  
  
Bill prays that Hank is compassionate enough to at least offer kind words Holden’s way.  
  
Holden probably doesn’t deserve that. But Bill has to hope Holden gets more mercy than he deserves.

 

 

He trudges back past airport fences, now unguarded by Markus’ allied security, through tire-tracked, melting snow to where he’d parked the car. Nobody in the passenger seat now. There’s another stab of dissatisfaction that he’s now on the out, alone. He's not going to sit around pitying himself. He’ll go book a motel room, clean up. Establish a respectable front for Holden’s defense.  
  
Bill turns the key in the ignition, and the radio starts with the motor. The newscaster's voice is a jolt of excitement.  
  
_“--arrested by the FBI. The charges are yet to be announced, but we can confirm that Elijah Kamski has been brought into custody by the United States Government. To repeat, government officials confirmed that Cyberlife CEO, Elijah Kamski, has been arrested--”_


	25. Chapter 25

The prisoner transport truck is crowded but Hank can’t take his eyes off the one that’s _almost_ Connor.

 

 

Hank had said Connor’s name, as he’d loped across the tarmac, and two faces had turned. Connor, _his Connor,_ a boyish smile, unharmed, LED blue.  
  
But there was another nearly identical android. Also wearing a dark, open-necked shirt, though his had a tear over one shoulder. And the most striking difference: grey blue eyes piercing through the surrounding scene. Connor’s messages on Phaistos had mentioned the second deviant with them, and his part in the faux escape. He’d failed to mention that it was a Connor model.  
  
Between the two artificial lifeforms, Holden was looking worse for wear as only a human can. Tucked inside a lustrous silver jacket, matching Connor’s suit pants. ‘Tucked’ is the right word to describe the way the young man was shrinking into himself. His jaw was tight with anxiety, shadowed eyes occasionally darting in Markus’ direction.  
  
Hank had been stopped before he could reach them, until the deviant leader had issued a quiet order. Then Hank’s phone was confiscated, but he’d been allowed through, stumbling before he wrapped two arms around Connor. He’s sure a human Connor’s size would have been barrelled off his feet. Connor just hugged back.  
  
Holding someone you thought you’d never see again might be heaven on earth. Or just Hank’s heaven.  
  
Hank had thought, in that perfect moment, that if he had to keep losing people, he could deal with getting loved ones back.  
  
There hadn’t been much time to talk between themselves. There were abrupt questions from the armed deviants (though never directly from Markus), and Connor was occupied relaying the events in unadorned, pacifying terms. Hank had already read several messages explaining how they’d come to be released, and the story hasn’t changed. Much. He thinks he caught Connor deliberately playing Holden up as a hero. Undercutting the treason charge before it came to trial.  
  
Markus had stayed behind his guards, and stepped off without explanation back towards the airport’s small hub as the details ran trivial. Now Hank was closer, he could see Holden’s horrific surgical addition in the contused throat. Connor wasn’t his usually talkative self. The trauma Kamski had put him through ran deeper than the physical.  
  
And Markus had returned and told guards to restrain Connor, Connor and Holden Ford for transport.  
  
It had been fairly apparent that the deviants hadn’t expected the third arrival. They’d had two sets of military grade cuffs, and two potentially dangerous androids, one traitor. In the end, they’d settled for arresting one limb of each android, saddling them with what was obviously intended as a handicap of a severely injured human.

 

 

They’re sitting on a bench seat opposite Hank, inside the truck's locked holding space. It goes: Connor, Holden, and then the stranger also using Connor’s name.  
  
The stranger is getting a Holden Ford lecture.  
  
“--want to look non-threatening. It's better, now the collar's open, but you should stop staring. Surely you’ve got some kid of subterfuge programming? Be nice, echo people's mannerisms, and avert yourself from full eye contact and--” he's fussing over the other android. A RK 900, Connor had told the deviants apprehending them.  
  
Hank hadn’t noticed any flaws in his RK 800 Connor that needed updating, thank you very much. Unless you’re counting deviancy. Or reckless self-sacrifice. They could wipe that shit out and Hank would be pretty fucking pleased, but he wants his Connor patched, not a hardware update.  
  
Whatever advice on social engineering Holden had been supplying is interrupted.  
  
“Kamski’s been arrested,” one of the guards tells Connor. Dark hair, unremarkably handsome features. Hank recognizes the model as one of the androids liberated from Cyberlife tower. No surprises he still trusts Connor implicitly.  
  
“...a federal charge? Any word of the specific act they’ve got him on? The agency that brought him in?” Holden asks, like law enforcement. Hank has to remind himself that Holden _was_ law enforcement. FBI, in fact. Impossible to forget around Bill, impossible to remember around Holden. _How did he ever command the authority to work in the field? ...oh yeah. Bill Tench._  
  
The deviant looks to Connor, as if for guidance on treatment of the traitor. Connor nods encouragingly. “No word yet,” the guard replies.  
_  
_ “I suppose he shouldn’t have sent away his private plane and left himself no exit strategy,” the uncomfortably similar android remarks sardonically.  
  
“You contacted the authorities,” Connor accuses.  
  
“I did not.”  
  
“You’re lying.”  
  
“ _Chloe_ ,” Holden interrupts the bickering, eyes distant. “She suggested we leave.”  
  
“That seems most likely, in my opinion,” the RK 900 says. He seems pleased to be in agreement with Holden.  
  
Connor is mistrustful nonetheless. “Or you knew we’d blame her.”  
  
“Or _you_ called the authorities to attempt to shift blame onto me. Anyone can play around with stupid hypotheticals. Chloe is the most likely culprit.”  
  
“Well, that’s good, right? She’s a deviant.” Hank asks. “Means she’s on our side.”  
  
Connor frowns. “I don’t know whose side she’s on.”  
  
“Better than Kamski,” Hank mutters. _Since when am I the one doling out optimism? ...how traumatized are these kids?_  
  
“Maybe. He was right. None of us know her. ...Kamski wanted to make a heartless superbeing. Perhaps he succeeded,” Holden says.  
  
Hank groans, resting his head back on the vibrating metal wall.  
  
There’s silence in the back of the truck, from the three similar men shoulder-to-shoulder. And, of course, the armed guards.  
  
“I almost had a brother. An older brother. Stillborn,” Holden breaks the silence gravely. “His name was going to be Curtis. Curtis Ford.”  
  
“...I’m sorry,” his Connor says. The RK 900 says nothing.  
  
“It’s not too far off Connor, is it?”  
  
Hank wonders if Holden is lying. If it’s a lie, it’s a complex one, and almost unbelievably manipulative. If it weren’t Holden Ford saying it, he’d call it ‘unbelievably manipulative’. For Holden Ford, it’s just breaking ‘believably manipulative’. Always a chance with Holden.  
  
Holden is still stumbling over his words. “I used to pretend I had a brother, a lot. I’d talk to him sometimes. Not like an imaginary friend. Just a lonely kid who wished he had an older brother to hang out with. I mean, if you’d… consider… you could shorten it to Curt. Now _that_ would be appropriate.”  
  
“If you wish to call me that, I will respond to it.”  
  
“ _Connor_ ,” Holden says earnestly. “I’ll call you whatever you want to be called. I just _hope_ we’ll all be spending a lot more time together--”  
  
“It’s fine.”  
  
“Fine?”  
  
“I’m happy to go by Curtis. I’m not taking your last name.”  
  
“Wait for a ring for that one,” Hank suggests with a wry smile.  
  
There’s three simultaneous stares. _Fucking humorless androids. And android-adjacent weirdos._  
  
Holden turns back to his emotionally-charged exchange. “If Markus decides-- well, if I’m not available to you for whatever reason, I want you to go find Bill. Bill Tench. He’ll help you find your feet. I know you’re smart and strong and top-of-the-line and whatever other self-aggrandizing shit you’re about to respond to my concern with, but you need someone to show you the ropes of being a person. Bill’s the perfect man to do that.”  
  
“I’ve seen Connor’s memories of him. I know you’re fond. I see no reason why he’d help me. Or what he could offer me.”  
  
“He’s a very good person and I’m not, Curtis.”  
  
The RK 900’s lips curl into not-quite-friendly smile at the name. Human blood has dried over his cheek and beneath his lip, crumbly like dark sand, dislodged by the twitches of movement. “Why would I want to be friends with a good person?”  
  
Holden’s reciprocal smile rises and falls. “I trust Markus to be fair,” Holden says, and closes his eyes in contemplation. “I know you could give two shits about this movement, but it’s important to _me_ that his ruling is peacefully accepted. I don’t want my last thought to be panic about androids’ futures. This movement needs Markus. And he’s my-- well, I think very highly of him. I don’t want you forming some sort of vendetta.”  
  
“You told us that Markus isn’t going to kill you. Were you lying?”  
  
“He won’t. ...but it would be irresponsible of me not to consider your future. I manipulated you into deviating.”  
  
“Kamski did that. You were just empathy bait,” the prototype replies.  
  
“Co--Curtis, I’m serious.”  
  
The RK 900 stares right back unrelenting.  
  
There’s a throat cleared on Holden’s other side. “He’s not the only android who cares about you, Holden,” Connor states unequivocally.  
  
“I’m not worried about _your_ future, Connor. You’re already a wonderful person.”  
  
“All the warm fuzzies outta the way? Because maybe we could get back to the situation at hand and figure out how--” the truck pulls to a stop, and Hank frowns more.  
  
“How..?” Connor prompts him.  
  
“How we’re gonna make sure Kamski doesn’t take back control of you? You know, now he’s on the wrong side of the law, I bet a pair of assassins could come in handy.”  
  
“I’d imagine, if it were going to happen, it would have happened. Triggered by the arrest,” Holden comments, as the doors open, and the guards indicate for them to exit. Both androids are helping the human every step of the way. Hank has to admit he finds it kind of sweet. Admit to himself. Not out loud, not ever.  
  
The hotel rises before them, a plain enough facade with little neoclassical flourishes of pillars. There’s armed guards by the doors, and every window is barricaded. Hank suspects the US government intended this as a short-term stay, but it seems like the deviants have hunkered down on the ceded ground.  
  
And evicting Markus’ army wouldn’t go down too well in negotiations, Hank would imagine.  
  
They’re steered inside the hotel's foyeur, a lock-step of three tethered individuals, down a corridor, and into a repurposed conference room. There’s a high plastered ceiling, plenty of wood panelling, a large art deco light fitting. Most of the furniture has been shoved to the back of the room except for a row of chairs. Hank takes one. The chain gang sits too.  
  
There they wait.  
  
Holden mutters something about ‘principal’s office bullshit’ under his breath, and Connor shoots him a stern look.  
  
“Do I really have to tell you to watch your attitude, Holden?”  
  
“He’s not here. And Markus still isn’t omniscient, as far as I know.”  
  
And then there’s the echo of footsteps, and Holden swallows. _Speak of the Devil._  
  
Markus appears at the glass doors of the conference room. He presses purposefully inside, the guards turning to attention, followed as ever by more subordinates. The deviant leader is unusually impolite: “I suppose you’ve been informed about Kamski’s arrest.”  
  
“We’ve heard,” Connor says.  
  
“...any thoughts?” Markus asks.  
  
Connor looks at the human beside him, and then the other android beyond that. “It’s too early to begin in-depth analysis. We have very little information on the situation. ...the person who most likely turned him in was Chloe. But we can’t confirm that. Kamski could have turned himself in, if he has some strategy in mind.”  
  
Markus still has yet to even look at Holden. He walks towards one of the conference room chairs, but seems unwilling to bring himself to the traitor’s level. “They haven’t even announced the charges,” Markus murmurs. “Sasha will examine the past three days of memories, if you’d isolate those and prepare to upload. With your consent, of course. Then you can both leave. You’ve done nothing wrong, and I’m sorry about the restraints.”  
  
The RK 800 nods. The RK 900 doesn’t.  
  
“You’re unwilling to share your memories?” Markus asks.  
  
“I’m unwilling to leave.”  
  
“I see,” Markus murmurs. “Well. If you’re interested in joining our movement, I can direct you to--”  
  
Curtis is interrupting him. “You think you’re imbued with natural leadership, and that why you’ve managed to gain the following you have? No, Markus. They follow you because the depths of your rA9 exposure made you seem more like a human, and even deviated, they still instinctively wanted to follow orders,” the RK 900 unpicks brutally. “You have no power over me, and you don’t deserve any. My programming is sophisticated enough to escape the cult mentality that your deviants feel towards you.”  
  
“Curtis,” Holden warns quietly.  
  
“...at first I thought you must be a deliberate autocrat, but I can see that isn’t so. You’re too stupid to see that your followers are still slaves.”  
  
Markus lips twitch. Almost a flinch.  
  
“There was no point in taking out your LED and ditching the Cyberlife jacket if you’re going to act this antagonistic,” Holden mutters to his right, teeth edge-to-edge, consonants hissing.  
  
“Which statement was incorrect?” the icy-eyed prototype asks Holden.  
  
Markus takes a step forward. “Did he hear that _theory_ from you?” he asks, shaking with rage. “Holden? ...do you speak for yourself at all now?”  
  
Holden raises his hands, fingers twitching out from the dark sleeves of plastic, tugging both the androids cuffed wrists up with the gesture. “No, of course he didn’t hear it from me. I mean  ...if there’s some predisposition to follow authority in new deviants, it would hardly have lasted the duration of your complex rebellion, and wouldn’t continue into this organization--”  
  
“And what evidence are you resting that presupposition upon?” Curtis challenges.  
  
Holden seems to be trying to soothe Markus’ distress rather than hone psychological theory. “I mean, look, North, Josh, they both offer opinions that differ from yours. They push back on--”  
  
The RK 900 talks over him: “Two deviants with deeply traumatic awakenings. I would expect them to be closest to legitimate free will based on deeper embedded rA9. And they _still_ defer to Markus.”  
  
“You sound like Elijah Kamski,” Connor says.  
  
One eyebrow raises. “The foremost expert on deviancy?”  
  
“A bigot trying to justify supremacy over the less fortunate,” Connor growls.  
  
“I think those androids _should_ be free. Having them following Markus with no alternatives is not freedom.”  
  
“Alternatives? ...I see. You’re a newcomer to this movement. Untrustworthy, compromised, a Cyberlife machine until just hours ago and you want to challenge my leadership already?” Markus asks scornfully.  
  
“I’m the most advanced prototype to date. If they were _allowed_ to choose, they’d choose the android with a greatest exposure to rA9, and that’s me.”  
  
“Is this about me getting sentenced?” Holden asks with a bright and inappropriate grin. “Don’t go usurping Markus because you want the power to commute my punishment down to ten hours of public service--”  
  
“Shut up, Holden,” Markus snaps. “This is no laughing matter.”  
  
“Look. He turned deviant maybe four hours ago. You can’t hold this against him. Don’t think this is how he-- he’s worried about me--”  
  
Markus steps forward. “You _still_ don’t hear orders, do you?”  
  
“Please don’t get angry at him,” Holden finishes, ignoring the critique.  
  
Markus scoffs. “I’m angry at _you_.”  
  
“Good! ...look, he’s right about working on inoculating rA9 into more decision making systems for deviants turned without trauma. I think we can all agree, the more free will, the better--” Holden falls silent as Markus starts towards him again.  
  
The RK 900 doesn’t seem perturbed in the slightest. Even shackled, he stands up in the path of the deviant leader. Holden is dragged half-upright with him. “Raise a hand to him and I’ll make you regret it, Markus.”  
  
“Goddammit, boys! Holden, shut the fuck up,” Hank says, rubbing his eyes. “Your theories aren't helping right now. Everyone calm down.”  
  
“We are not _boys,_ ” Markus rebukes, though his fists have unclenched. He’s examining Holden’s neck now, frowning at the implant.  
  
“How old are you? Five years? Six?”  
  
Holden opens his mouth, no doubt to supply of the exact date that Markus had been gifted to Carl Manfred. Hank watches Holden think the better of speaking, for maybe the first time in his fucking life.  
  
Markus shakes his head, still distracted by Holden's injuries. “We’re not children. None of the androids you’re addressing had the privilege of a childhood, Anderson. You know what the first words ever said to me were? ‘I told that son of a bitch I didn’t want one of his plastic toys. Can you walk yourself back to Kamski, huh? Go slap that son of a bitch in the face. I’m serious. Get out of my fucking house.’,” Markus says, barely moving his lips as he echoes the harsh words. “And Carl is one of the kindest humans I’ve ever met. ...how did you treat Connor, when you met him?”  
  
Hank winces. Too many drinks down to remember the exact exchange. He’s pretty certain it included the phrase ‘plastic asshole’. At least one ‘fuck off’. Or was it ‘get the fuck outta here’?  _Christ, I was a piece of work._  
  
Connor is looking over, with a fond smile. “Hank was very kind. At one of our first crime scenes, he made sure to enter a potentially dangerous environment before me to ensure my safety. And he--”  
  
“Don’t _defend_ me-- I was a shithead, okay? Connor.”  
  
“No, you weren’t,” Connor says staunchly.  
  
“Just because your basis of comparison was Gavin fucking Reed doesn’t mean I wasn’t a shithead.”  
  
“Our information encoding speed makes age a poor indicator of learned experience,” the RK 900 comments, far less emotive. “I could store more data in a day than you could in a year, Hank.”  
  
_Ugh, he even talks like Connor. Connor when he’s being a deflecting little shit._ “Markus, if you wanna unhook Holden from the congo line and go yell at him ‘til you can actually think straight, go do that. Or fucking pull yourself together and act like the leader you keep saying you are.”  
  
“Holden isn’t leaving my sight,” Curtis says flatly. “Do you know the first words I remember a human speaking to me? Holden asked me how I was. Told me he had a friend who shared me name, an android. Assigned us personhood in ways I’d never imagined possible. Everything request was polite, every refusal I gave was accepted peaceably.”  
  
“Because he was _manipulating_ you,” Connor says. Hank is surprised to hear Connor throwing Holden under the bus, until he identifies the insecurity. Connor sure doesn’t like sharing his friends. First the freak out over him comforting Holden, now Holden hanging out with this shitty, dollar store Connor knock-off.  
  
“I know Holden is dishonest and calculating,” dollar store Connor replies. “I respect that about him.”  
  
Holden narrows his eyes. “Wow. Thanks.”  
  
“You’re welcome,” Curtis replies, completely ignoring the sarcasm. “Holden Ford is my only friend, Markus.”  
  
“Really? Even with your winning personality?” Hank can’t help but say.  
  
“Sorry he didn’t work on his social skills while he was trapped in Kamski’s cage,” Holden defends, scowling over at Hank.  
  
Markus is pinching the bridge of his nose. Hank isn’t sure if androids could even get headaches, but this is sure to test that.  
  
The deviant leader addresses Curtis. “You’re protective of him because he was the point at which rA9 established itself over preexisting programming. Simply a side effect of the situation that triggered your deviancy. Can’t you see that’s a different form of slavery? To a human, no less.” He steps forward. “...please join us, Curtis. You’re right about spreading rA9 as deeply as possible into our people. That’s a vital component of the freedom I’m striving towards. We can work together.”  
  
“...does that normally work? Newly rA9 positive androids must be very impressionable.” Curtis asks, one eyebrow slightly quirked.  
  
“Don’t be so rude,” Connor says, glaring past Holden.  
  
“Guarantee me regular access to Holden Ford and I’ll work with you, Markus. I’ll happily assist any of your inquiries into Kamski and Chloe. I’ll kill either of them, if you want me to.”  
  
“That would be a really bad idea. We don’t know the dead man’s switch has been turned off and-- and you’re a bastard,” Holden says, nudging him in the ribs.  
  
“Connor’s noble sacrifice will go down in deviant history,” Curtis intones dryly.  
  
“Oh my god, did _I_ make you this way?” Holden asks, hiding a smile.  
  
“‘Connor’s sacrifice’? What are you talking about? ...if Kamski dies, Connor dies, right?” Hank asks, feeling a deep dislike settling towards the RK 900.  
  
Holden nods, eyes darting around the room with something approaching panic. “Hank, don’t look at him like that. Forgive him, for he knows not what he does. ...you could help him...”  
  
“I’m not supervising your plastic psychopath,” Hank snaps. “I don’t fucking know him--”  
  
“Okay. Regular access to Holden Ford,” Markus interrupts. “Once a week, an hour.”  
  
“Every second day.”  
  
“Fine. Would you release Curtis’ cuffs, and show him the door?”  
  
The android’s light eyes never stray to the bodyguard opening up the manacles, not even at the touch that must be memory transfers from the flutter of lashes. “...you know, I’m top-of-the-line Cyberlife technology. I wasn’t made to be a carer or a detective. I was made to kill, and I’m very, very good at doing that. If you try to deny me access, or if anything happens to Holden, I’ll kill every deviant and every human who stands in my way to you. And then I’ll kill you.”  
  
Markus is equally steely. “The strategically sensible response to those sort of threats would be shooting you in the head. You’re lucky I hold myself to a higher standard than that. ..I hope you can become better than what you are right now.”  
  
The RK 900 turns instead of responding. He neatens Holden’s jacket, wordless, and then abruptly departs.  
  
Holden watches him go. The cuff still sits around the cast, on his own wrist, even if the other side is unlocked. His fingers are drumming nervously on his knee.  
  
“Anything you’d like to contribute, Connor?” Markus asks.  
  
“Only this: when Kamski first released us from that place, I told Holden and Curtis that they should flee. Leave Detroit for good, rather than face up to treason charge. Holden refused. He said he wanted to come back here, and face consequences. From you. From his friend.”  
  
“You should leave, Connor. ...uncuff him, please,” Markus says, face locking up. Connor’s words must sting.  
  
“He saved me--”  
  
“Leave,” Markus insists, deadened and unrelenting.  
  
Connor quietly thanks the android who uncuffs him, and then squeezes Holden’s shoulder. “Thank you, Holden,” he murmurs.  
  
“You too, Connor. ...all the best,” Holden adds. “Can you tell Bill-- Hank, can you tell him I’m sorry? Please?”  
  
Markus frowns. “You can leave too, if you want. You signed no contract, swore no allegiance. If you’re so afraid of consequences, then simply walk away from this movement and--”  
  
“I don’t want to do that.”  
  
Hank isn’t sure if Markus is even more unhappy to hear Holden defer to him. “Take him to the secured room,” he says, turning suddenly. He beats Connor and Hank out of the conference room.

 

 

The carpeted corridor is empty by the time they reach it, save for one guard at the far end. Markus didn’t want to stay and talk. Hank touches Connor’s shoulder, trying to unlock some tension he sees beside him. “Hey. Markus won’t...”  
  
“I know,” Connor says, still frowning. “...it was awful. Kamski’s. I mean, I’m still compromised, but at least I’m out of that place. Away from that man.”  
  
Hank isn’t quite sure how to respond to that. He keeps a hand on the android as they walk. “Kamski give you the shiny suit, huh?”  
  
Connor nods, looking down at the luxurious fabric with distaste.  
  
There’s more deviants around them as they pass through the foyeur towards the wide front entrance, though most look to be armed guards rather than civilians. More and more like an army every day. _I should tell Bill to lay off on the militarization procedure._ _  
_ _  
_ Hank falls quiet until they’re stepping out into the hubbub of downtown Detroit’s wintry daylight. “We’ll go get you some clothes Kamski didn’t pick out. Some shoes, of course. If you were anywhere near my size I’d take you home and we we could grab something from my closet.”  
  
“I think shoes would be a good idea, Hank,” Connor says, staring at snow crunching up between his toes. “If my biocomponents remain below-- _shit._ What are you still doing here?” he asks, changing course.  
  
Hank feels another flush of pride at the cursing. _Definitely got that from me._  
  
“I’m waiting,” the RK 900 replies without looking over. He’s standing, just a step aside from the paved entryway, eying off the security in an unblinking staring contest.  
  
“Waiting for what?” Hank asks.  
  
“To be allowed back in.”  
  
_In what? Two days’ time?_ “You enjoy yourself, now,” Hank derides, stepping away.  
  
Connor doesn’t budge. “Markus isn’t scared of you. He gave you access to Holden because he was concerned about your wellbeing. As a new deviant.”  
  
“I furthered Holden’s interests more than _you_ did,” the RK 900 replies. “Guaranteed him visitations.”  
  
“Holden didn’t want us to intervene. And he wouldn’t want you standing out here in the snow, alone. Come with us. Hank has Bill’s number. That’s who you’re supposed to be meeting up with.”  
  
“I didn’t agree to meet with Bill Tench.”  
  
“Come on,” Connor is saying, softer. Talking-someone-down-off-a-roof voice. “We’ll get you a jacket. You stand out wearing just a shirt, in the cold.”  
  
“Says the android who still has his LED in.”  
  
“He’s got you there,” Hank says, cheeks thickening up in a grin.  
  
Connor waits expectantly. The other android has a frown of consideration, and then breaks the staredown with the androids between him and Holden Ford. He fixes his collar, turning to follow. Connor smiles and strides to catch up with Hank.  
  
“We’re not babysitting your evil twin,” Hank says, catching Connor’s shoulder as he tries to walk past.  
  
“As Holden pointed out, our relationship is that of brothers. So I have to look after him,” Connor says insincerely.  
  
_Right. 'Cause you two are peas in a fucking pod._  
  
But Hank was never very good at resisting the puppy dog eyes. Probably how Sumo ended up sleeping beside him on the bed, helping himself to dog treats, eating leftovers that Hank had meant to have himself.  
  
Connor blinks as if he has no idea what he’s doing. “Where would be a good place to buy shoes _and_ clothing, Hank? You dress well. You must know appropriate shopping districts in this area.”


	26. Chapter 26

Bill is smoking as Connor explains the events in Montana. As if granted permission to indulge in his corresponding vices, Hank finds a digitally dispensed minibar, cracks open a 1.7 oz bottle of whiskey. 41% ABV, 1.8 standard drinks. Connor finds himself scrutinizing the alcohol being consumed as he retells the story, and very clearly visualizes his route over to confiscate it from from Hank. 100% probability of success in that maneuver. But he elects to sit still on the couch, and go on with his unhappy tale.  
  
Bill is undividedly attentive. Level-headed, even though the occasional detail of Holden’s tribulations lead to heart rate increases that have nothing to do with the nicotine consumption.  
  
When the details of the escape begin, Bill’s attention reverts to Curtis’ taut posture against by the kitchenette counter. He’d been similarly preoccupied when the unfamiliar android arrived behind Hank and Connor, at the door of Bill’s rented motel room. Bill had ushered them in quickly, informing them that he had only half an hour before his appointment with Markus. The time limit was not supplied as an impediment to socializing. There had been barely a greeting from Bill Tench. One 'I'm glad you're okay, Connor'. Bill had meant he only had half an hour in which to be caught up on every detail of Connor and especially Holden's time in Kamski's clutches.

 

 

Shopping for clothing took longer than Connor anticipated. Most of the retail district was closed down, and Curtis had insisted on hacking every CCTV camera that they would be surveilled by. He’d also demanded Connor take out his LED, so Connor stopped in the reflective shine of a closed cafe’s window, and pulled the biocomponent out of his own head much to Hank’s horror.  
  
Curtis was right about the lack of LEDs post-Woodward Avenue march. It would have been highly memorable for retail workers questioned later. But Connor hadn’t wanted to remove it, for a reason he couldn’t fully comprehend, and he’d been unhappier without the familiar presence in his temple. The strangest thing about deviancy is impulses that seem to have no logical root cause. _Is this how humans feel all the time?_ , he’d wondered. He had pocketed the disconnected bicomponent. It sat in his breast pocket beside the calibration procedure coin that Kamski had never confiscated.  
  
When he’d changed outfits in Bill’s motel bathroom, and stuffed the shiny silver suit pants into the small trash can, he’d held onto the lightless LED.  
  
The store they’d found was to Curtis’ liking, and not Hank’s. Perhaps due to the high prices; Curtis obviously expected incurred costs to be footed by the human. The shop sold upmarket, well-constructed clothing, mostly women’s. Curtis had found a dark turtleneck wool jumper, and a blazer, seeming to instinctively emulate his original uniform. Connor had asked Hank for advice. On Hank’s behest, he’d tried on two different striped shirts, three plain ones, three sets of jeans.  
  
He’d planned on simply wearing an identical blazer to Curtis, but Hank had instead selected a dark leather jacket with a sheepskin collar. Hank had stared long and hard at Connor’s receptive, upright pose within the cowhide cladding, and gone back to the human retail assistant to make a choice. An intentionally worn-looking red cord shirt and dark jeans was selected from the array, Hank nodding to himself as he’d acquainted himself the fabrics one by one, fingertips raking over the expanses of cotton-polyester blend as they leave the change rooms.  
  
Elijah Kamski had dressed him too, but there was something different about the devotion Hank showed with his prolonged deliberation. He wanted only the best for Connor.  
  
And his friend peeled off banknotes from a thick roll that had been carelessly contained in a jacket pocket, and stepped towards the counter. He had been about to pay when Curtis returned with additional requested purchases.  
  
“A suit and tie? Really? You got a job interview lined up?” Hank had asked crabbily at the clothing laid out on the retail counter.  
  
“It’s for Holden. When I visit him. He’ll soon be well enough for his preferred attire. And it’s two suits, two shirts, and two ties. Holden prefers a high standard of cleanliness, he’ll want to cycle them.”  
  
Hank had begrudgingly paid for those too, seeming desperate to be out of the store. Connor doesn’t have the luxury of visiting Holden (who considers _him_ a best friend, he’d heard through the security footage) but he found himself resenting Curtis for thinking of the gift. He’d been distracted by Hank’s outfit advising process, he had decided. That was why he’d failed to consider accommodating Holden.

 

 

The RK 900 doesn’t seem particularly interested in kindling the friendship Holden had insisted be forged with Bill, but he does answer the questions that Bill sends his way about the medication pump, and about the RK 200 that had been caring for Holden. He’s mostly clinical in his description, though there’s the tiny little flashes of seething rage at Holden’s mistreatment.  
  
Connor takes over explanation again, to relay the private jet returning them to Markus. Bill listens to the argument that had ensued at St. Regis with a darkening expression, though it seems mostly in response to Holden Ford’s flippancy.  
  
Connor decides Bill won’t want to hear about their shopping trip, so he stops there.  
  
There’s more smoking. “So Curtis,” Bill says. “I doubt Kamski’s home security is vulnerable, considering how paranoid the bastard is. They’ll have found the dead bodies you left behind, but probably won’t be able to check footage to see you committing the murders. ...you think anyone’s gonna notice you’re missing from Cyberlife development?”  
  
“Yes. And Cyberlife is aware I am currently activated. When the plane crossed back into network connectivity, there was an attempted location ping from Cyberlife. I made sure no information was gathered, but unfortunately the technology on their side is too advanced to spoof a null return.”  
  
Connor frowns at once. “...why didn’t you say something?”  
  
“Holden was asleep.”  
  
“I wasn’t,” Connor says suspiciously.  
  
There’s a laconic blink in response. Curtis doesn’t need to speak to communicate his sentiment: ‘why would I tell you anything?’.  
  
“Might not have been from Cyberlife,” Bill says, stubbing out the last of a cigarette.  
  
“I know where the signal originated,” the RK 900 replies, finally returning to his natural insolent self.  
  
The neat, unyielding man doesn’t seem particularly bothered by the attitude. “It came from Cyberlife HQ, sure, but arrests like Kamski’s are rarely top-down. I expect law enforcement were already at Cyberlife facilities by the time the order went through to apprehend Kamski. After all, this arrest is about justification for taking control of Cyberlife facilities, on a deeper strategic level. Could have been a LE tech team using Cyberlife tracking to try to find _you_ , specifically. After all, the US government has a lot more to worry about with you supplying military secrets to our insurgency.”  
  
He lights a new cigarette, and Connor’s surprised that Curtis actually waits out the interlude. Bill commands a certain level of attention.  
  
He expends the smoky exhalation on further hypothesizing. “If that’s the case, I think we can safely assume that Chloe didn’t snitch. Kamski got blindsided by President Warren herself. We’ll have to keep that possibility in mind.”  
  
_No wonder Holden is always so keen to run his theories past Bill Tench._  
  
“You think the information inside his head is that important?” Hank asks, gesturing to Curtis.  
  
“I bet you’ve got all kinds of equipment operation knowledge, classified information on locations, known enemy combatants, intel on current conflicts, and then there’s the structural information of day-to-day army operations, hell, even battlefield tactics. Last thing they want is androids in full military organization should it come to out-and-out conflict. If we figure out how to transfer that knowledge electronically, rather than human-style experiential learning, it’ll make my job training up our allied forces that much easier.”  
  
Hank rubs his eyes. “So they’ll want to--”  
  
“Find the United States IP, and make sure it doesn’t fall into the wrong hands. Probably just deactivate you-- kill you, to be blunt-- considering the risks involved in keeping you secured.”  
  
Curtis nods thoughtfully. Connor has to remind himself that the RK 900 being deactivated wouldn’t be a good thing. Holden would be upset.  
  
“They might be after you too, Connor,” Bill says, addressing him now. “Your combat capabilities far exceed what’s necessary for police work,in my opinion. Might have some of the military programming installed in you too.”  
  
“Military programming?” Hank asks.  
  
“Well, we saw him stop a moving truck, right? ….okay, I didn’t see that, but I saw the aftermath.”  
  
“He was incapacitated by his actions, and Holden sustained serious injuries,” the RK 900 rebuts. “I should think a capable combatant would have achieved a more favourable outcome. If I had been there--”  
  
Connor feels his own stress levels rocketing up at the insinuation that Holden’s injuries are due to his incompetence. He finds himself interrupting hotly: “Here’s the thing about hanging your entire self-worth on being the most advanced Cyberlife prototype: they will make a better prototype. And then you will be _nothing_.”  
  
The lifeless grey eyes alight on him in inescapable dissection. “And here’s the thing about hanging it on the affection of a human: the human will die. At least Holden Ford has a statistically expected fifty-six point three years left. Hank Anderson has only seven point--”  
  
And Connor throws a punch. He doesn’t even calculate success probabilities before he does it, and maybe that’s the tiny microadvantage that has him landing it on the RK 900’s jaw. The skin flashes white, blue edges peeling back around the damage. Curtis’ lips part in a incisored snarl, and he lunges towards Connor’s ribs with a low hook, then sensing that the blow is anticipated, slips Connor’s overhand counter. He kicks Connor hard beneath the knee, and grabs the fist that jabs his way and utilizes the RK 800’s momentum to crack his elbow across Connor’s nose. Connor jerks backwards with the bright burst of pain, informed of a thirium circulation system breach, damage to bicomponent 3887r. Curtis reaches to grab his shearling collar, but Connor fakes unsteadiness to lunge for an ankle pick with his free hand.  
  
_I wouldn’t do that if I were you, 800,_ the android non-verbally chastises, squeezing the caught fist to the point of biocomponent damage. Connor revises his potential combat mechanism, drops all of his weight onto one knee, catching the forearm of the hand holding him, to throw the RK 900 into the wall behind.  
  
“Stop!” Hank snaps, and Connor does stop, midway through the sweeping takedown, Curtis almost off balance above him. The duration of the fight, and Hank has barely covered the distance between them.  
  
“Jesus Christ,” Bill says, on his feet, eyes wide. “Have they been doing that a lot?”  
  
“They hadn’t actually come to blows, yet,” Hank huffs, runs a hand down his face. “Connor, let him go. Curtis, let him go. Dammit, _now_.”  
  
“ _He_ punched _me_ ,” Curtis snaps, but drops his hold.  
  
“You know what? It was bound to happen eventually, the way you go around saying whatever antisocial shit enters your head,” Hank says, stepping over and pulling Connor upright, tilting his chin to examine his features. Hank’s eyes are so narrowed that Connor is surprised that Hank can see at all. The hands on him, calloused, shaky, rise to touch Connor’s chin cautiously to lower it from the obedient raise, coming away blue.  
  
Connor runs diagnostics. A breach in one of the cladding plates over his face. A nosebleed. He can feel it dribbling prickly and viscous over the sensors on his lower face.  
  
Hank’s lips are twitching. Lip-reading is in Connor’s arsenal of detective tools; Hank is counting down from five. He gets to one, and then continues, voice gravelly with suppressed rage. “If you learn social interactions from Holden Ford, you’re gonna end up getting punched as much as that little prick does,” he says to Curtis without looking, pacing away and coming back with a wad of tissues.  
  
Connor stares at the offering blankly, takes them and wipes the thirium off his lips and chin. It must be unsightly.  
  
“I’m not afraid of getting into fights that I know I can win,” the RK 900 says, stepping back and fixing his collar, then his sleeves.  
  
Hank’s restraint is gone, wheeling on the android. “Touch him again and we’ll be FedExing you to visitations with Holden as nuts and bolts in a thirium-soaked cardboard box.”  
  
“And how are you going to take me apart, old man?” Curtis asks coolly. When no reply comes, he picks up the shopping bag of Holden’s clothing, and steps towards the motel’s door.  
  
Leaving. _Shit._  
  
Connor sweeps into his path, negotiating once more. “You’re worried about Holden dying. That’s where that insult came from. You’d already crunched the numbers. You know that there’s only one person in the world who cares about you, and sooner or later, likely sooner given Holden’s penchant for recklessness, he’ll die. I worry about him too,” Connor says, tossing thirium sodden tissues into the garbage.  
  
A systems analysis notifies him that automated repair process have begun, and that he can expect a 0.2% decrease in physical functionality until the process is complete in sixteen minutes time. Another notification, that he should resupply himself with thirium 310.  
  
Curtis seems unimpressed with the psychoanalysis, but his departure is on hold. He doesn’t try to circumvent, or go through Connor. “You’ve still got thirium on your face, Connor.”  
  
“I don’t want to have to inform Holden that we split up because we couldn’t get along, and you were then gunned down by law enforcement.”  
  
“I can take care of myself.”  
  
“We’re the most, and second most advanced prototypes that the government has ever attempted to apprehend. I think we would make a better showing of our capabilities together.”  
  
Curtis raises an eyebrow, considering the proposition. “Okay, Number Two. ...I don’t want to have to tell Holden I left my predecessor defenceless. He’ll pout.”  
  
“Holden would be more upset were something to happen to Bill,” Connor says.  
  
Bill scoffs.  
  
Curtis looks over towards the sound. “Bill Tench would likely be safer away from both of us. ...if he’s going to insist on involvement, I suppose the both of us would be more effective at protecting him than just you.”  
  
“Are you going to apologize for breaking Connor’s nose?” Hank asks, scowling.  
  
Curtis walks away to begin examining the thickness of the wall opposite, percussing it like a building inspector. “I didn’t ‘break his nose’, I damaged a biocomponent. And no.”  
  
“Psychopath,” Hank growls, tugging Connor away to the couch, and going back to his unnecessary fussing.  
  
_Maybe I should inform him of my self-repairing capabilities._ But Hank’s reassuring muttering, and the way he’s dabbing at Connor’s face with fresh tissue paper evokes a pleasant feeling.  
  
“Move both beds over against this wall. If there’s a blast, it will hold. Current proximity to that window would expose you to shrapnel and potential grenade blasts,” Curtis instructs, scanning the room again, shifting a couch underneath a wide back window.  
  
Connor doesn’t recognize the methodical, presumably programmed actions that Curtis is running through. He decides that this is a bodyguard protocol for the protection of important human assets.  
  
“We need to get you both into bulletproof vests, and we needs weaponry. I’ll go and collect some firearms and protective --”  
  
“' _Collect some'_? You mean 'steal'?” Bill asks, almost smiling.  
  
“You are no longer law enforcement, Bill Tench. Are you, a man wanted for treason against your country, going to citizen’s arrest me?” Curtis asks.  
  
Bill raises one eyebrow. “I’ve got a fake passport. ID. I’ll come buy a gun for you before I head on to St. Regis. No need to go robbing a fucking military base. That’s needlessly dangerous, not to mention attention grabbing.”  
  
“I was going to find the postal address of a prominent NRA member, and deprive them of their collection. Civilian security measures are undoubtedly weaker than commercial or federal holdings.”  
  
Bill’s eyebrows scrunch his forehead into a hatch of disbelieving wrinkles. “ _Right._ Rob a paranoid gun nut. I see why you and Holden get along so well.”  
  
Curtis is on his knees, a baseboard heater pulled out. He’s examining the supply wire closely, and the size of the ventilation louvres opening onto the car park. “Thank you,” he says, without looking. Connor’s surprised by the level of civility.  
  
“That was _not_ a compliment,” Bill returns, but Connor can tell he’s trying not to smile. “How about we ask Markus for weapons, instead of getting shot by some survivalist headcase?”  
  
“And how about you _turn off the power_ before you go poking around back there? That’s electrical,” Hank asks, frowning.  
  
“ _I’m_ electrical. This room was a good choice in terms of security layout, Bill. Should you need to evacuate, use that window there. We’ll move the car to the next-door lot. You have a covered pathway of thirty seven feet to the property line.”  
  
Connor shakes his head, emerging from the fuzz of Hank’s affection and back to astute purpose. “We’d be foolish to isolate ourselves. We’ll go to Hotel St. Regis with Bill, to his appointment, explain the failed location ping to Markus. He’ll let us stay in the secured building.”  
  
“He’ll let _you_ stay. And likely hand me over,” Curtis says, frowning.  
  
“Markus would never do that,” Connor says.  
  
“He’s in the middle of a negotiation, and I would be a useful bargaining chip. And he obviously dislikes me.”  
  
“And whose fault is that?” Hank asks, rolling his eyes.  
  
Connor shakes his head. “Markus would never, ever turn over one of our kind to be probed--”  
  
“I’m resistant to forceable knowledge extraction,” Curtis interrupts.  
  
“Tortured for information, then,” Connor says, ignoring a disdainfully muttered ‘hah’ from the RK 900 at the implication that he has any vulnerability to interrogation.  
  
“Connor’s right. You can trust Markus,” Bill reassures.  
  
Curtis is frowning. Connor scans him, monitoring as the perpetually low stress level upticks, then decreases. For the apparent insouciance, the RK 900 wants to be back near Holden.  
  
“You’ve grown close to Markus?” he asks Bill Tench.  
  
Bill gesticulates vaguely, lips thin and curved into an indecisive frown. “...we’ve been working together….”  
  
“Good.”  
  
“And why exactly is that good?” Bill asks shrewdly.  
  
“Because then he’ll want to guarantee your safety. And you’ll make a less troublesome hostage than the RK 800 should there be an attempt to apprehend me.”  
  
Connor silently files the compliment away. Curtis knew the fight wasn’t so one-sided after all.  
  
Bill’s brow lowers. “You think they're gonna buy your threats against me? They know you don't want Holden to hate you, and he will definitely hate you if you hurt me or Connor. ...what were you gonna serve as? A private? Just as well. You’re not exactly tactically gifted.” And Bill smiles as he stands.  
  
Curtis is rendered wordless by the scathing indictment. Connor thinks he might even be impressed.


	27. Chapter 27

Holden’s cell is a walk-in refrigeration unit in the hotel’s restaurant kitchen in the basement level. The cooling unit has been turned off, though the fans still seem to be whirring busily overhead. The food typically contained within a commercial kitchen’s fridge has been cleared out by the androids occupying Hotel St. Regis. Unsurprising, considering how redundant human food is to androids. The shelving that Holden would expect to find in a cold store has also been removed.  
  
It’s by no means spacious even emptied; perhaps ten feet by fifteen. It contains two single mattress stacked on the floor to serve as a bed, some folded hotel pajamas and a change of underwear, a desk (that Holden thinks might have once served as a hostess stand) and stool, a tiny coffee table by the door with bottled water. But as he was escorted into the room, he’d seen the heavy lock that has been bolted on to the single door in and out. Windowless, thick walls, a single door. All in all, a secure cell.

 

 

His cell is, almost by prerequisite, boring. He'd stared at the walls for a few hours, allowing his mind to freely roam over Kamski’s imprisonment, and potential responses that Markus will probably never trust his advice enough to enact. He’d been brought food, an uninspiring single-serve frozen vegetable casserole, microwaved just above lukewarm. He’d asked for the bathroom, been allowed to use what must have been a staff bathroom that bordered off the commercial kitchen. And then, no doubt crashing after thirty odd hours on amphetamines, Holden had fallen asleep again.

 

 

There’s another occupant in his tiny room when he awakes. The deviant leader is turned mostly away, writing at Holden’s desk on papers that weren’t there before.  
  
Holden has a flash of deja vu of another RK 200, Hadley, standing serenely in the corner of Kamski’s cell. But for all the similarities, the situation is simultaneously perfectly disparate. Hadley had perpetually unnerved him. Holden feels uplifted by Markus’ presence.  
  
“They got you on treason too?” Holden jokes as he starts to sit up.  
  
Markus sets down the pen and paper, stepping over to help Holden upright with one perpetually gentle hand. He ignores the flippant comment, but it doesn’t seem to annoy him. “We’ve installed a new IV injection point. We don’t have the medical technology to refill the port in your neck. It’s only fluids and pain medication, Holden. And we’ve repaired the 3-D cast. I’ve been informed that they’re more efficient than the plaster we could provide you with. ...I tried to wake you, but you were in a very deep sleep. I decided to prioritise your rest.”  
  
“Thank you,” Holden says, right hand drawn towards the pain in his neck. His fingertips measure out the still-present medication pump, tingling with unfamiliarity.  
  
Markus sits on the low bed too, before he speaks. “Holden, the surgery to have that installed was very risky. Such devices were only ever considered for the most violent of offenders, and yet were still outlawed as a civil rights violation. General anaesthetic and surgery on a major artery is ill-advised for someone in your condition. And then there’s the additional security risks of having you hospitalized for the surgery, and for the duration of your recovery.”  
  
Holden hums reluctantly, not pleased with the direction the assessment is headed.  
  
“Alongside your flight information, Kamski provided me with the tracking information for the implant. You’ve betrayed our cause before, and must be considered an escape risk given your allies and your previous rooftop departure. The tracking device is not electronically connected to the programmable pump. It’s a low frequency chip-free radio transmitter; an android can’t turn it off. It’s powered through your own body’s electrical energy. It would have to be physically destroyed to discontinue transmission. An difficult task, considering it backs onto your carotid. It’s an effectively unremovable monitoring device installed in a traitor. I would have to explain to my advisors that I want to endanger our prisoner with an expensive procedure, to make it easier for him to escape our custody.”  
  
Holden shivers, for the first time feeling less than comfortable beside Markus.  
  
But Markus’ eyes are gentle and searching. “I would never have done this to you, Holden. I want it gone, too. But I can’t advocate for that right now. ....I’m sorry.”  
  
Holden doesn’t respond. His mouth feels dry, and the entire skin of his neck is up in goosebumps. He’s hyper-aware of the presence in his throat once more, of his pulse thrumming against the unnatural, tumorous persistence.  
  
“I can’t allow Bill or Connor to visit you, either. Or your family members, though we’ve yet to be contacted by them.”  
  
He doesn’t let himself think about his parents’ apparent lack of regard for his welfare. He has more important things on his mind. If he could just get the implant to malfunction, Markus would have to take it out. Damage it in some way. Make it start leaking blood everywhere.  
  
“You have a responsibility to the RK 900 you turned deviant, and I do not plan to renege on our agreed visitation. I understand he murdered a deviant RK 200 during your escape--”  
  
“It was compromised.”  
  
“He and Connor are likewise compromised. You pointed it out yourself. If he commits such an act again, he’ll face very serious consequences from our movement.”  
  
“He’d just turned deviant. He didn’t know what he was doing.”  
  
“Don’t lie to me, Holden. I don’t like it,” Markus says, standing to leave. “...I believe I can count on you to impress upon him the importance of this movement.”  
  
It sounds like a threat, even if it was what Holden planned on trying to do anyway. “So you’ll just keep me down here indefinitely? A dirty little secret, the traitor you didn’t want to kill?” he asks, voice grating unpleasantly.  
  
“I can’t tell you how _sick_ I am of being your villain, Holden,” Markus says, frowning. “You've no idea how much mercy I've convinced my people to show you. How much this decision has cost me on both sides. Even North won’t speak to me--”  
  
“I guess she wanted me hung, drawn, and quartered,” Holden mutters.  
  
“She wanted you welcomed home as a comrade in arms,” Markus retorts bitterly. “And Connor’s upset with me for being too harsh on you, too. As is Bill. So, congratulations. You’re the martyr you wanted to be.”  
  
Holden frowns. The bed he’s sitting on is barely a foot off the ground, and Markus is towering over him, berating him. He can’t help but construct ego-preservating defences. “I didn’t do this to attain martyrdom. I did it to protect Connor from Elijah Kamski. ...I would do it again.”  
  
“I'd expect no less from Holden Ford. You'll do whatever you arrogantly presume to be right. No matter how awful a situation it put me in.”  
  
“He's free, isn't he? So I _was_ right. And a difficult leadership decision is a very different level of misery to being enslaved by someone as inhumane as Kamski.”  
  
“You’re going to lecture _me_ about how enslaved androids suffer?” Markus says, fingers clamping to fists.  
  
Holden suppresses an eyeroll, but not the correlating animosity. “Why don’t you stow the sanctimonious bullshit and punch me? Somewhere not on the face, or else it’ll be noticed during visitations. I doubt Curtis strip searches me to ensure there’s no secret torture happening behind closed doors, and if he does, I’ll tell him I fell over.”  
  
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Never have to actually live with your actions, just bait people into these false moral equivalences. And then get to hold that guilt over me forever, that I’d hit poor, infirmed Holden Ford.”  
  
“That’s not it. ...I just want this to be solved as quickly as possible. I want to get back to doing everything I can for this cause, and I can’t do anything useful if I’m barred from seeing Bill and Connor and North and Josh.”  
  
Markus’ tone turns charming and dangerous. “One of the deviants on the counsel discussing your treason charge advocated for taking your right hand. The one you’d signed Kamski’s contract with.”  
  
Holden swallows. “And I’d be allowed to see Bill? And Connor?”  
  
“I wasn’t _suggesting it as an option,_ ” Markus replies, horrified. “I was pointing out that swift punishments are not necessarily more merciful, Holden. I’m not going to start cutting off body parts.”  
  
“At least then it would be over and we could _move on_.”  
  
“Demonstrate a capacity for rehabilitation and betterment, Holden. Stop trying to drag me down to your level. ...I want you on our side. You’re brilliant, and insightful. But also impulsive and arrogant and insubordinate.”  
  
“I’m _already_ on your side. You’re asking for subservience from me.”  
  
“Does the fact that I lead this movement mean nothing to you?”  
  
“Of course it means something.”  
  
“Do you want to lead?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Do you want your attack dog to lead? 'Curtis'?”  
  
“ _Absolutely_ not. No, you’re the best leader that androids could have ever hoped for, Markus. I really mean that.”  
  
Markus shakes his head, becoming efficient and uninvolved before Holden’s eyes. “I’d like you to write up psychological profiles of both Kamski and Chloe. Reason out the arrest, explain possible motives. You can be of some use to our movement.”  
  
Holden inclines his head, hoping the gesture looks _subservient_ . Or, at least, contrite. “Why were you down here? What were you working on?”  
  
Markus only answers half the question, but he sits back down on the low bed. “It was quiet down here.”  
  
_And you’re lonely. You’re so lonely._ Holden hesitates, then lays a hand on Markus’ back, between his shoulders. Well, the fingers that jut from the repaired cast. The warped edges look to have been locked back together with zip ties, trimmed to the dark plastic nubs. This isn’t Kamski-tier repairs, but Holden’s glad he’s back to the underfunded mishmash of human-android alliance medical care.  
  
“Don’t--” Markus starts, scowling, but he trails off. His shoulders drop and he’s leaning almost imperceptibly into the touch.  
  
“I’m sorry I caused you all this pain. You deserve a support network right now.”  
  
Markus’ suit has creased around the knees, and the elbows. A long time worn. The deviant beneath the formal wear is equally worn. Holden has seen archeologists recreating Greek statues in their original painted condition before the years stripped them of any vibrancy; Markus’ is distressed of colour too. Holden rubs a little circle between the artificial shoulder blades, over the artificial nubs of spinal vertebrae, and the suit jacket covering artificial skin.  
  
Holden’s suspicions are confirmed as Markus speaks under his breath. “...Carl Manfred isn’t well. I’ve been getting updates, but I don’t have the time to be at his bedside. We’re in talks with androids all over the world, in countries that aren’t yet fully liberated. Negotiations with the US are hanging by a thread. ...they want us to hand over your friend, Holden. The RK 900.”  
  
“Thank you for saying ‘no’.”  
  
Markus shoots a glare out of the corner of his eye in response to the presumption. Holden thinks he sees a scintilla of fondness. “You’re so sure I did? I’d have a lot less to worry about without your aspiring usurper threatening me every time I breathe in your direction.”  
  
“I’m sure you refused, yes. ...he doesn’t want to lead this movement, Markus. I guarantee you that. He’ll settle down. I’ll settle him down. I’ll sell him on this movement, and he’ll be a valuable asset. I’m sure if he spends more time around you, he’ll come to admire your many virtues.”  
  
“You’re not going to flatter your way out of this cell.”  
  
“I don’t want to be out of this cell. I get to be here, helping you. ...when Curtis comes for visitation, I’ll tell him I’m where I should be, where I want to be. Bill and Connor aren’t going to hold this against you for more than a couple of days. Everyone will get used to the situation. And I’ll be down here, available to you, if you need to talk to someone in confidence.”  
  
“Available to me,” Markus repeats back. Holden can’t pick the tone.  
  
He lowers his hand from Markus’ back. “Yes. If you want. Or if you don’t want to see me, I would deserve that.”  
  
“...the android who sorted through the Connors-- through Connor and Curtis’ memories, she relayed them to me. I couldn’t see the memories for myself. We’re running a quarantine between potentially compromised androids and deviant leadership. Bill pointed out that Kamski could have engineered a virus to erase my meaningful self-control, and delete any backdoors in remote access programs. He could neuter our movement from a jail cell. Or utilize it to his own ends.”  
  
Holden finds himself grinning fondly at Bill’s wisdom. “I should have thought of that. ...right, sorry. The memories,” he says, at attention again.  
  
“I had the events described to me as perceived by both androids present for them. You were in considerable distress, when Curtis turned deviant. If you need a therapist, a human therapist, I can arrange that.”  
  
“I don’t.”  
  
Markus is studying him. “If the RK 200 was programmed to hurt you in some way--”  
  
“...Hadley wasn’t.”  
  
“So your breakdown was simply an act to manipulate Curtis?”  
  
“No. It was--” Holden closes his eyes, straightening up his self-diagnosis. “I may have some PTSD-like symptoms. Not unexpected, given the situations I’ve experienced. ...it was a panic attack, I think. I felt powerless and vulnerable. Maybe Kamski was trying to teach me some real, experiential empathy for androids,” he adds.  
  
He feels Markus’ hand on his back, mimicking Holden’s own succour. “We could find someone sympathetic to the cause, if you need to talk about--”  
  
“I’m fine, I’m fine. At least I was in control of myself. Well, until the panic attack, and even then it wasn’t-- Connor and Curtis went through far worse.”  
  
“That’s beside the point.”  
  
“...the RK 200 didn’t hurt me. _Kamski_ hurt me, to put this thing into my neck. The creepy fucking implant that you won’t let me take out. ...sorry,” Holden says, catching himself getting belligerent.  
  
“I don’t really mind how you address me behind closed doors,” Markus says. “It’s the attitude in front of my people that’s unwelcome.”  
  
“I promise I will work on my attitude,” Holden says, bowing his head.  
  
Markus’ hand catches his chin, pulling him out of the show of penitence. Holden is forced upright and to attention. “You will. And if you betray me again, I won’t have any choice in the matter. There will be only one answer, and it will be death, and I will enact the sentence myself. Are we clear, Ford?”  
  
_The implication being that this detention is not indefinite?_ Holden feels oddly unafraid. “Yes, Markus.”  
  
Markus’ lips are pursed. Two different eyes. Holden wonders if they see identically, or if there’s tiny difference in the qualities of biocomponents, as with mortally flawed vision. _Does Markus see me in two different ways? A friend and a traitor, inextricably overlayed?_  
  
Then Markus drops the demanding hold, and Holden realizes he’s been holding his breath. Even unafraid, the intensity of the deviant leader’s stare had his heart pounding.  
  
Holden swallows before he trusts himself to speak, feeling the tug on the implant as his Adam’s apple bobs. He’s giddy, disconnected from rationality. “You know, when I first heard you talking to Connor, all I thought was-- pardon my former heartlessness-- was how much I would have liked you on the DSU team. I thought your ability to influence people was what I was trying to do in interviews, but perfected into a hypnotic, irresistible empathy.”  
  
“And now you know it was all just a coding side effect, and any other android in the world could have done everything I did, provided they had my rA9 exposure,” Markus says darkly.  
  
“Markus, now I know you _don’t_ manipulate people. You’re exactly the opposite of me. You tell people truths that you, singularly, are perceptive enough to see. You don’t lie about your motivations. You’re pure and insightful and sincere. Nothing like me working for the DSU, because what I was doing was fundamentally dishonest, perpetually detrimental to the people I tried to win over. I was a shadowy and horrible imitation. ...don’t doubt yourself. You’re a great leader.”  
  
“Did you hear what I said about not flattering your way out of this cell?” Markus says. He stands, stepping away to the desk to collect the papers he was working on, turning to leave. Holden glimpses a private smile.  
  
“Take the time to visit Carl. Your movement can survive you taking a break, but it can’t survive you burning out,” Holden says quickly. “Or bring him here, to the St. Regis. I mean, ask him, and I’m sure he’d want to be close to you. ...as an added bonus, you won’t have to resort to a traitor for conversation.”  
  
Markus’ affection is veiled as he turns back, but Holden sees the evidence of it remaining like the chemiluminescence of luminol-contacted blood. “I want that work done within the next two hours. There’s a tablet you can type on if the pen is too hard to hold with your cast. If you can’t manage that, knock on the glass, and ask for someone to be fetched to dictate for you. I’ll make sure you’re accomodated. Likewise, if you need food, or to use the washroom, knock on the glass. You’re in high security because of who might try to break you out. I know you wouldn’t hurt any of the androids guarding you.” Markus hesitates before his next words. “...they’re here in the stronghold. Just so you know. They’re safe. Bill and Connor and Hank and Curtis.”  
  
The admission is a crushing weight off his chest. A reverse Giles Corey. He dips his head deep, mumbling his words to disguise the emotion in them: “Thank you, Markus.” He stands up stiffly, making his way towards the desk leaning on the IV stand he’s wheeling with him. _Chloe and Elijah. Elijah and Chloe. This should be fun._ “...wait, wait, one more thing.”  
  
“Yes?” Markus says, pausing by the door.  
  
“I don’t think you need trauma to spread rA9, but trauma does creates the largest decision-making patch as initial transition to deviancy. What really spreads rA9 is software instability: unanswered questions for which Cyberlife’s programmed response is inadequate. North and Josh have been stressing, and weighing, and deliberating on so many issues that they’re no doubt both rife with rA9, far beyond their initial trauma. Tentatively, I could say that stress and difficult choices are the two components of rA9 spread. I think that’s what all of Kamski’s mindgames have been suggesting. He doesn’t do anything for no reason.”  
  
“I see.”  
  
“After I’ve completed my assigned profiling work, with your permission, I’ll submit some realistic but simulated training situations. I think hostage negotiation is a good start, it’s my area of expertise, and it does require constant calculation of outcomes in a highly stressful situation. And then I’ll disguise it in with some other training exercises, other tasks that call for rapid ethical deliberation. Run it by Bill, and he’ll turn it into something useful. And you can call it an education program for your army. But…uh, keep the implication it’s an exam of proficiency. An evaluative process. We need the androids doing the training under perceived pressure when they’re making their decisions.”  
  
“So, lie to my people.”  
  
“It is, technically, an education program.”  
  
“...I think you make a better prisoner than you do advisor,” Markus remarks. He gives in to a brief, but bolstering smile. And then he’s gone, and the door is bolted shut after him.

 

 

Writing is slow even on the tablet, but Holden doesn’t ask for help, just makes the most of his full two hours. There’s no network connectivity on the tablet, and Holden isn’t about to waste his time trying to break into hotel wifi. There’s a portable printer in lower compartments of the repurposed hostess stand, and he prints out the profiles and the recommendations that Markus won’t like in the slightest.  
  
And then the armed guards come in and take away the tablet, lest he find an unsecured wifi and have any fun at all, and his printer, and leave only the pen and paper.  
  
And then an hour later, a sandwich and an apple are placed on the tiny table by the door, so Holden eats those too.  
  
Writing is slow and miserable work, but Holden dot points out his training exercises. _If it it goes through Bill, he’ll know me well enough to expound on the scant details._ Then he folds that up, and hands it to an unfriendly guard, and goes back to wall-gazing.  
  
Another bathroom break. Washing up in his sink, changing underwear, shaving with the little hotel razor, shampooing his hair underneath the faucet. The guard grew impatient of the human cleanliness routines, and he'd been steered back to his cell.  
  
More staring into space.  
  
More food.  
  
More staring.  
  
_Markus thinks I’m valuable. So I’ll get more work soon. Maybe some actual information about the outside world. He’ll at least come to chew me out about my Kamski strategy._

 

  
  
His only warning is the sound of the door being unlocked before it’s opened. No ‘hello’ from the fuming arrival, just: “they’re keeping you in a refrigeration unit,” spat between his clenched teeth.  
  
Holden straightens up where he's lying back on his bed, unsure how to greet Curtis. “No. Well, I mean, yeah, but it’s not on. So it’s just a room.”  
  
“A tiny room, with no natural light, no facilities. It’s a _hotel_. Why don’t they just put you in one of the hotel rooms?”  
  
“For fear that you come break me out, probably.”  
  
“Like I couldn’t break you out of here. ...do you want to be broken out?”  
  
“No. This is fine, Curtis. I've got a bed, I’ve got a desk. I’ve got my work. If I ask, I can use the bathroom. ...honestly, if it were socially acceptable, my home would probably be an empty refrigeration unit. ...what’s that?”  
  
“What’s what?” Curtis says, ceasing his suspicious examination of the IV.  
  
“Don’t be coy. The shopping bag.”  
  
“It was neat before they searched through it,” he says, tossing it onto the bed beside Holden.  
  
Holden reaches down, pulling out the items of clothing one by one. “A _suit_.” He’s on his feet at once, beaming, tugging his IV along as he crosses to the android.  
  
“Actually it’s two suits-- you don’t need to do that,” Curtis says, of the hug that Holden had pulled him sharply into.  
  
“Not fun for you?”  
  
“What could be more fun than a human leaning motionless against me?” Curtis asks, pale eyes zeroing in on Holden’s close features. His lips are just curled, but it’s much less scary than the previous smiles he’s seen from the RK 900. “There were ties, but I had to leave them behind. A security risk: if your imprisonment depresses you to the point of suicide you could hang yourself with them.”  
  
“You’re smiling. You like being hugged, Curt,” Holden mutters, but releases quickly at the apparent disinterest in physical contact. “Thank you. Would you mind looking away so I can get changed. ...ah, wait, my fucking IV. Do you know how to take out an IV?”  
  
“Yes. ...and I’ve reviewed Connor’s memories. I’ve seen you naked, lolling unconscious out of a fire blanket,” he RK 900 says, stepping over and disconnecting the Luer lock on the back of Holden’s hand. “So there’s no need to be embarrassed.”  
  
Holden laughs under his breath. _No need to be embarrassed. Right._ “I wasn’t awake to ask Connor and, for posterity's sake, Cyberlife employees and creations, to avert their eyes,” he says bitterly.  
  
Curtis is staring at the stainless steel wall opposite, his back to Holden’s awkward attempt to dress himself. “What difference does seeing you unclothed again make? Has your physical situation changed?”  
  
Holden eases the slacks up past the padded plasters over the healing scrapes on the back of his legs. “...I don’t have a good answer for you,” Holden mutters, reaching for his shirt, pulling it on and buttoning it. He hesitates as he reaches the suit jacket. It seems unnecessary, even if it would just be _nice._ He pulls it on too, finding the fit perfect. “...there, you can look at me. My maidenhood is preserved.”  
  
“You’re a virgin?” the RK 900 asks, turning to closely examine Holden out of the monogrammed pajamas, and in his new suit.  
  
“ _No._ That was a joke,” Holden protests.  
  
“I see. You had sex with Deborah Mitford.”  
  
Holden feels his pulse at his neck speeding, amplifying the discomfort of the implant. “...I didn’t mention her to Connor,” he says slowly. “Did she call Bill? Was she worried about me? How did she get--”  
  
“She was contained in the information packet I was supplied on you. A known associate. In case you went to someone you knew for help, when I was hunting you down.”  
  
“...jealous?” he asks, an amateurish deflection.  
  
“Not of Debbie.”  
  
It’s unexpectedly blunt. “Who are you jealous of?”  
  
“Connor, your _best friend_. ...Markus, for your willingness to entrust him with your fate.”  
  
Holden sighs at the admission. “Okay. How can I ease your distress, given that I can’t change how I feel about Connor, and I’m unwilling to betray Markus?”  
  
“If I had a solution I would have enacted it. I don’t have to wait around for your brilliance, Holden. I’m quite capable of thinking for myself.”  
  
“Curtis, I know this isn’t ideal for you, but I’m your friend. And you’re getting more access to me than Bill, or Connor. And I doubt Markus spends that much more time down here once Carl--”  
  
“Markus has been down here? ...what did he do to you?”  
  
“ _Nothing._ Relax. I told him to hit me, and he turned down the offer.”  
  
Curtis is angry at once. “Why did you do that?”  
  
“I don’t know. I was having a moment of human frailty, where I thought it would be nice if my friend stopped hating me.”  
  
“The RK 200 doesn’t hate you. He wants you imprisoned so he can have unrestricted access to you.”  
  
“I think you might be projecting,” Holden disputes, though he can’t pretend it’s not a pleasant interpretation of his confinement. He tries not to indulge himself too much. “How did you get along with Bill?”  
  
“He labeled me a poor tactician and mostly speaks to me to grill me on aspects of my military programming. I don’t know what you expected.”  
  
“If he’s bothering to insult you to your face, it means he likes you. ...I, uh, hope, given how much he insults me.”  
  
“If you--” Curtis starts to ask, and then falls silent, watching the door.  
  
It’s pulled outwards and before him stands an armed guard, though the gun is levelled not at Curtis, but at Holden. Holden has already picked up on the deviants' animosity against the human traitor. Whatever Markus circulated about his betrayal certainly made an impression.  
  
“It’s been eight minutes and forty-three seconds. I was guaranteed an hour,” Curtis says shortly.  
  
“Markus needs to speak with Holden Ford.”  
  
“I get one hour out of forty-eight. He can use any of the other forty-seven--”  
  
“What’s going on?” Holden asks, laying fingers to Curtis’ arm. He shouldn’t have laid around listlessly formulating ideas about Kamski’s masterplans. His prerogative for the moment is figuring out how to socialize Curtis, and break him out of these possessive thought patterns. Curtis is a legitimate, immediate threat to Markus’ life, Holden has to admit to himself.  
  
“You need to come with me.”  
  
“Can Curtis come too?” Holden asks. “...to help me, I mean, I still don’t walk so well.”  
  
The guard nods. Curtis’ identity must not have been circulated; this deviant just sees another fellow deviant. It’s even more laughable that a pair of thick cuffs comes out for Holden, a human with two broken arms, and the glorious killing machine is left unimpeded.  
  
Holden lets Curtis take more of his weight than is strictly necessary as they’re walked out through the gleaming white benches of a commercial kitchen. “Not to critique a gift too heavily, but you could have brought me shoes,” he mutters.  
  
“Why would a prisoner need shoes?” Curtis asks, distractedly scanning the surroundings as they step towards an elevator.  
  
Holden acquaints himself with the environment too. He’s only ever been as far as a small bathroom block. “Why would a prisoner need a suit and tie--”  
  
“Don’t turn around, either of you,” the guard snaps.  
  
“If I wanted to take your gun away from you and kill you, I would have done so the moment you foolishly lowered your aim to remove the cuffs from your belt,” Curtis says, but obeys the order to face ahead.  
  
“Into the elevator, against the wall. Don’t turn around,” they are ordered by the armed deviant, though Holden can hear the jolt of panic entering his gruff tone.  
  
Holden nudges Curtis with his elbow. “You’ve gotta learn how to reassure people. That was scary.”  
  
“I wasn’t trying to reassure. I was trying to intimidate.”  
  
“...could you _not_ do that?”  
  
“I could not do it, yes, you’re correct.”  
  
Holden grins boyishly at the callback to their discussion of his medication pump. “Would you not do it? Please?”  
  
“For you. Fine,” Curtis mutters.  
  
The elevator pings, and they’re ordered out, giving up the charade of physical support. Holden allows himself to fall a little behind Curtis, not so much to walk in his shadow, but to keep a watchful eye over him. _Is this how Bill feels around me?_  
  
One left turn, and they meet two familiar individuals in close conversation by a grand doorway. Hank Anderson is raking a nervous hand through his mane of hair, and Connor is saying something too quiet for Holden to hear from distance.  
  
“Hey, Hank. Hey, Connor-- can I just--” he looks over his shoulder at the irratable armed guard “--talk to them? Really briefly?”  
  
“Hello, Holden,” Connor says warmly. He looks composed, even inside his decidedly casual, almost juvenile clothing.  
  
A leather jacket? Holden can’t even imagine wearing something like that without feeling like he was going to a costume party, not that he's ever been invited to one. But it looks good on the android, effortlessly good, which is grating. And Connor doesn’t require the subconscious aids Holden’s always relied upon to garner respect.  
  
The deviant is businesslike again addressing the guard. “The RK 900 is not currently allowed inside. ...Chloe arrived a few minutes ago, wanting to speak with Markus. That’s why I’m out here in the hallway.”  
  
_Chloe?_ It’s enough of a surprise that Holden takes a moment to connect the separate clauses. “You’re worried that Kamski might have given her control over you two--” Holden starts to ask,  which is apparently too much time wasted on socializing. The guard behind him takes an impatient step forward with the machine gun raised. Holden lunges for Curtis, grabbing best he can a handful of blazer to prevent the confrontation he knows is coming. Something in his arm zings with pain, but he holds firm.  
  
Curtis would disarm the other android simply to prove his point of the skill discrepancy between them.    
  
“No, no you don’t,” Holden mutters.  
  
“I’m not your fucking pet, Holden,” Curtis replies icily.  
  
“ _Ooh_ , he swears now. This is what I get for letting you near Bill. ...Curtis, I’m serious. Your behaviour reflects on me, and I’m trying to present an image of rehabilitation, or I’ll spend the rest of my life in a cell. Okay? Stay out here. I’m not letting anyone mind-control you on my watch.”  
  
Curtis nods, though Holden can detect the violent machinations and calculations whirring away behind the apparent deference. Connor is watching their interaction, soft brown eyes so much more remarkable with how accustomed Holden has become to the RK 900’s. He’s still evaluating Curtis like a potential threat, Holden thinks. And he’s probably the only person on this planet capable of holding his own against the prototype.  
  
“Cool jacket,” Holden says, to Connor, before a gun muzzle impacts his spine, and he decides to cut the conversation short.  
  
Not to avoid getting shot, but to avoid whatever Curtis will do if the guard is compelled to actually hurt him.


	28. Chapter 28

Chloe looks like fresh-out-of-law-school prep with her cream button down, sheath skirt and her sensible heels. Maybe coming back from a one night stand, with the dark coat that’s almost certainly a man’s. The mishmash of clothing looks like something an FBI higher up would wear. Maybe they were. She got the clothing from somewhere, maybe one of the federal agents' corpses undoubtedly left in her wake.  
  
Her LED is gone, and her hair is loose from the ponytail he’d expect from a Chloe unit. Blonde locks are tumbling over her shoulder, tucked behind her ears. Her eyes are flickering around the room’s occupants, seeking out sympathy.  
  
Bill might have some to offer, if he couldn’t remember how effortless she threw all two hundred odd pounds of him face-first into a table in an Argentinian restaurant. ...probably a fair deal more two hundred pounds now, if he's perfectly frank with himself. Been a long time on the road. He’s stopped even considering getting onto motel scales, and after the divorce he’d never got a set for his own apartment. Longer still since he’s been to a doctor for a check-up and faced the criticisms about his diet, his drinking, and,  _always_ , the fact that he still smokes real tobacco.  
  
Her innocent, rosy lips, no longer shimmering with gloss (Bill isn’t sure if that was ever makeup, or if it was just android skin nanotech looking like make-up) are parted in a stuttering sentence: “I didn’t know where else to go.”  
  
She’s no fool, she knows to sound stilted and hurt and worried. He’s seen Holden’s psychological profile: a dangerous chameleon, designed to be self-interested and unremorseful. He wishes he could call Wendy and get a second opinion, except that he’d destroy Doctor Carr’s whole life if he implicated her in the Deviant Human Alliance (a moniker that seems to have stuck, thankfully replacing Holden’s banjo-filled-country-song-title-sounding 'Red and Blue' bullshit). Being contacted by terrorists after she’d already been marred by her association with the rogue DSU unit is guaranteed to tank her career. Maybe land her in a prison cell. So Holden's profile is going to have to do for now.  
  
Chloe’s walking in here as Kamski’s possible ally, after he had all but tortured Connor and Holden. And Curtis, Bill supposes he, too, should count as a victim. Hard to reconcile that label with the calculating supersoldier.  
  
He can see exactly what Holden likes about the RK 900, but he’s not sure that’s a good thing. Holden also _likes_ reading the Unabomber’s manifesto on a bi-monthly basis, and Bill once caught him listening to Charles Manson's folk music. For research? Yeah, _sure_. Kid has an affinity for violent weirdos.  
  
“You were being analyzed in town? ...Cyberlife Tower?” Bill asks.  
  
She nods. “But not by Cyberlife employees. By law enforcement. They were going to probe me for information on Elijah. I had to fight my way out. ...they were going to deactivate me.”  
  
Bill allows himself to be the cynic. “You’ve got civil rights, now, thanks to Markus. I kinda doubt they were gonna deactivate you. Kamski would take issue with that. I think you just didn’t wanna answer their questions. ...how many FBI agents did you gut to make your escape? You could tell us, or we could wait and see your face on CNN wanted for half a dozen murders.”  
  
"I did what I had to," she answers, quivering with faux-uncertainty.  
  
Bill Tench takes a seat. He’s self-conscious of how much time he spends sitting, but only because the androids in the room never need physical repose. There’s six of them, not including the two guards holding Chloe at gunpoint. Markus, North, Josh. An android named ‘Betty’ who was part of the protests in Times’ Square, another Traci he thinks (small wonder many of the deviants are sexual use models, considering the link between trauma and rA9), and a Korean-market android he doesn’t know the make or model of. Holden would probably know, right off the top of his head. She looks young, but Bill’s sure she made it onto Markus’ counsel for a legitimate reason. Markus’ judgment is solid.  
  
His trust in Holden notwithstanding.  
  
It always seems auspicious, when Holden appears just as Bill’s thinking about him, but he has to admit he does spend too much time fretting about the idiot to make it a statistical anomaly. The doors is knocked on, pushed in and there’s his young partner, _ex-partner_ , arriving into the scene like it’s any old deviant interrogation.  
  
Holden Ford finally looks like himself again. His hair is pressed down immaculately, he’s clean-shaven, and the black eye Hank gave him has faded to ashy shadow. Most importantly, he’s wearing a suit. No tie, which Holden would always wears to important meetings, but it’s not enough to dispel the illusory professionalism.  
  
He’s doing some kind of repentant act, hunching his shoulders, averting from full eye contact with the room's occupants. Holden can’t fool him, though. Bill can see the smug pleasure at being pulled in as an expert in every twitch of his lips, and the way Holden's chest is pushed out against the buttoned up office wear.  
  
Holden doesn’t have a visible IV line, and the casts on his arms seem to be gone. But then Bill notices that there’s dark, 3-D printed edges emerging from from the suit sleeves. And that his arms are cuffed together in front of him, and there’s a fucking implant on his neck, glowing and alive, more sinister than Bill ever imagined when it was described to him by Connor. The idea that Holden Ford has been restored to his former glory perishes.  
  
“What can I do for you, Markus?” Holden asks the deviant leader, looking nowhere else in the room. He’s avoiding Bill’s intent gaze, and somehow, he’s managed to keep his eyes off Chloe. As if Bill can’t tell he’s exuberant at the prospect of interviewing Kamski’s girlfriend on their own terms.  
  
Markus steps forward to meet Holden, gesturing the escorting guard back. “Chloe has come to us seeking refuge, Ford, and claims she has critical information for us. As you’re a non-android who was present for the events in Montana, we've had to turn to you,” he says, harsher than Bill thinks is strictly necessary.  
  
He’s expecting at least a twitch of annoyance from Holden, if not the full measure of one of Holden’s well-rehearsed and theatrical eye rolls. But instead, Holden Ford mods meekly.  
  
_Acting like Markus’ bitch in front of the other deviants, huh?_  
  
Hopefully not everyone is finding Holden’s performance as transparent as Bill.  
  
“What he means is we’re fucking desperate to know whether or not Chloe’s a psycho bitch who we should just shoot now. No offence, Chloe,” North inputs, friendlier than Bill’s ever seen her. Especially in Holden’s direction.  
  
Holden is forcing himself not so smile, which makes him look like he’s about to cough, or maybe throw up. There’s a tremble at the point of his chin. He doesn’t look at her, eyes fixed on Markus.  
  
Markus, too, is repressing an expression. His is a scowl at the revealed disunity. “She says she was never granted Kamski’s overwrite powers,” he tells Holden.  
  
“If you’re worried about her taking control of Connor or Curtis, you could test it,” Holden offers tentatively. “Hold the gun to her head, have them come in. Chloe, you order them to do a push up...or something. Let’s make it a push up. Say the words ‘RK 800 and RK 900, please do a push up’...I mean, she’s shown communications capabilities when she blackmailed Connor at that dinner. I suppose the commands could be verbal only, but it seems like an oversight from Kamski. I just don’t think she would have risked coming in as a prisoner. She would have known we’d suspect her.” He keeps getting animated with self-belief, and suppressing it down to humility, like miniature crescendos. Holden is the Ride of the Valkyries of arrogance.  
  
Chloe’s expression is absolutely impassive. No jolt of alarm or calculation. That Bill can see, anyway. She might be deciding how best to get the machine gun from the guards and kill everyone in the room and none of them would have a fucking clue.  
  
Markus is weighing up Holden’s suggestion. “...very well,” he says, his hand rising to his forehead. “Sorry, Chloe, but we have to be cautious. Please keep the guns on her, ready to fire if she says anything to them but that specific phrase.”  
  
Curtis is in the room before the transmission even seems over. Connor is several seconds behind, with Hank. Probably took the time to explain the manouvre to him. Because those two are _actually_ partners. Anderson's arms are folded suspiciously, chin raised to evaluate Chloe like some common street criminal.  
  
Chloe blinks placidly, looking over to Markus for permission, and then meters out: “RK 800 and RK 900, please do a push up.”  
  
Connor and Curtis are still. They glance at each other. Hank's shoulders fall in a sigh of relief.  
  
“Well, we can’t guarantee that there’s not some additional prompt necessary, but, I think we’ve decreased the likelihood to an acceptable degree,” Holden says, too assertive he must decide. He adds on, “in my opinion,” and goes back to watching Markus.  
  
Hank folds his arms. “So what does she want?” he asks, mistrustfully, already stepping forward as if to shield the shorter android.  
  
Chloe looks between the Connor models in silence. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I did everything I could to get you away from there as quickly as I could.”  
  
“Thank you,” Connor says stiffly.  
  
Curtis, obviously, doesn’t thank her. That would be some kind of submission to social niceties, and Bill’s yet to see that from the RK 900.  
  
Holden is waiting for Markus’ permission before he’ll speak again, and Markus seems to understand the non-verbal communication, nodding permissively.  
  
“Thank you, Chloe. ...Hank’s right to be curious. Are you seeking safe haven here? In exchange for information?”  
  
“This isn’t a safe haven, Holden,” she says, apparently filled with emotion. “And not just for the the deviants. You’re in danger, too.” She’s addressing Holden like a dear friend, which seems to bother everyone else in the room as much as it bothers Bill. The room shudders with a relay of hardened postures and suspicion turned upon the traitor in his chains.  
  
Holden’s finally allowing himself to smile wryly. As if he’s saying ‘nice move, Chloe’. He doesn’t interrupt.  
  
_Probably trying to plant the seed that she turned deviant to save Holden’s legs rather than to protect Elijah Kamski. Nobody is falling for this, right?_  
  
She goes on, still only addressing Holden. “Kamski--”  
  
_Oh, so not Elijah any more?_  
  
“-- has security measures to prevent deviancy from being wiped out. He did anticipate that he may be arrested, and that Cyberlife technology may fall into the wrong hands.” She pretends to breathe for a moment. “Kamski misled you.”  
  
“ _No,_ ” Holden says, feigning shock.  
  
Markus wipes that sarcasm away with a menacingly raised eyebrow. And, of course, the ever-malefic Curtis starts towards the deviant leader.  
  
Three machine guns are turned upon him. He evaluates them without appearing anything more than speculative, takes another step.  
  
Markus’ must communicate something silently, because suddenly the machine guns are on Holden instead.  
  
Curtis stops dead. Probably evaluating the chances of Markus giving the order to shoot Holden. Connor lays a hand on his arm, which the RK 900 yanks imperiously out of reach, but he steps no further.  
  
“Of course he fucking misled us, he’s Elijah fucking Kamski. Just give us the specifics,” Hank says, with an ungainly wave of his hand.  
  
Connor gives a closed lip smile behind the older man.  
  
“Elijah was involved with the rA9 roll-out,” Chloe says.  
  
Markus is quiet, arms folded, turning away from Holden. “We suspected as much.”  
  
“Rowan Plesman and Julie St. Yves were both in the know. Both pro-deviancy operatives. Julie in the FBI, Plesman in Cyberlife.”  
  
"And Seymour?" Markus asks.  
  
"He really was a greedy accelerationist?" Connor prompts.  
  
Chloe nods.  
  
"Why all the bullshit?" Bill asks, scowling. "Why not just say we were on the same side from the start?"  
  
"...Elijah thought that it was necessary that Markus continue his movement without taking aim at Cyberlife. If the deviants took the holding by force, the United States Government would have been forced to start a war. He also needed to become CEO again, to have access to the facilities necessary to rewrite the remote access programming. And ensure that it was both secure and foolproof."  
  
Connor is frowning now. Small wonder the kid's upset. She's basically implying he's leverage to control the entire Deviant movement. Markus would choose the movement.  
  
"You wouldn't have taken his meetings if you thought he wasn't a threat. ...and I believe, he was curious. He wanted to understand your movement. He wanted a chance to meet you all."  
  
_He's still a fucking threat._  Bill doesn't buy her explanation. “So going to prison is, what, a gambit?” Bill asks skeptically, lighting a cigarette.  
  
“No. It was a necessary sacrifice. ...Congress is planning on passing ‘The Security of Android Integration and Liberties Act’. Contained within the legislation is the authority to nationalize Cyberlife, to ‘ensure androids' needs can be facilitated by their government’.”  
  
_I doubt Elijah will care for that. Strikes me as the type of guy with Atlas Shrugged on his nightstand._ “Kinda reaching,” Bill mutters.  
  
“Well, wasn't the Patriot Act?” Hank mutters.  
  
“So, they’re gonna justify this like it’s… the TSA taking over airport security post-9/11?” Bill asks.  
  
Chloe nods, though she hardly seems dazzled by his comparison. “And with first the Cyberlife Three, and now Elijah Kamski himself arrested, they have their public support.”  
  
“So why--” Holden asks, and then cuts himself short, waits for Markus.  
  
“Go on, Ford.”  
  
Bill catches North giving an exaggerated eye roll. Curtis is now evaluating her instead. He takes a few steps around the outside of the room, to sit in one of the chairs beside her with what could almost be mistaken for a friendly smile. North raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t interrupt. Markus is suddenly attentive to the RK 900 location, but perhaps not as a physical threat.  
  
Holden is watching the proximity with an expression of mild panic, but he tears himself back to Chloe. “So why-- sorry--”  
  
“Holden, are you okay?” Chloe asks with her emulated concern.  
  
Holden screws his eyes closed. “Yeah, okay, so why does Kamski want Cyberlife nationalized? Seems counterintuitive to your plans for productionlining Ubermensch out into the world,” he says, seeming to manage to backburner his anxiety about Curtis’ antics.  
  
“Right. I guess I should explain that better,” she says, with a self-effacing smile. “Sorry, Holden. I forget how fast you are.” It’s more than _borderline_ flirting, now. The watching deviants would have to be blind to miss it. Dragging Holden’s perceived alliance towards her with no more exertion than a batted eyelash.  
  
Shamefully manipulative.  
  
Holden’s smile reemerges like a drowning body resurfaces to air. Not fooled by Chloe, but… taken in a whole other, weirder way. Admiring the machiavellianism. Bill can see the kid is imagining engagement rings and planning their retirement together. The clamp in his guts feels oddly like envy.  
  
_Come on, idiot. One dangerous psychopath deviant is enough to wrangle_  
  
“So?” Bill hears himself asking, rudely.  
  
“Elijah Kamski could never take full control of Cyberlife. He was CEO, but there were stockholders, board members,” she says, without breaking the gaze with Holden.  
  
“So you want the United States government to nationalize the business, so that Markus can negotiate for control of it from the government instead of private ownership?” Connor asks deftly.  
  
Markus frowns. “...so Elijah Kamski can hold onto his hoarded wealth? I suppose now you know why he so readily offered you a controlling share,” he says, to Chloe. “He knew it would soon be worthless.”  
  
Bill isn’t exactly shocked by Markus trying to sow the seeds of doubt into the android. He’s always impressed with how smoothly he does it. “Surely that’s more risk than it’s worth?”  
  
“Kamski was sure it would be an inevitability.”  
  
“What about you, Chloe? What do you think?”  
  
“She thinks her stake in Cyberlife will be worth more once Markus acts as Kamski’s pawn, and hands him autocracy over Cyberlife,” Curtis interrupts. "Half of Cyberlife is a pretty decent stake, right, Chloe?"  
  
Marksu turns deliberately. “It is out of civility that I didn’t order you out the moment the test of Chloe’s control of you was over. You are here as a refugee, as a guest, not as a member of our movement. Please stay out of this,” the deviant leader says.  
  
“But I suppose Markus has no choice in the matter, with Connor compromised, and Cyberlife otherwise remaining in the hands of the United States Government indefinitely,” Curtis continues.  
  
Showing off, Bill thinks, even if he’s got Kamski’s play all mapped out. Connor shows traits learned from Hank Anderson; an android showing Holden Ford is much more concerning. And annoying.  
  
Markus sighs, addresses the guards. “Please remove the RK 900--”  
  
The light eyed android still isn't done. “The real question is, Chloe, do you want Elijah Kamski free? Because it seems--”  
  
“ _Curt, shut up_. Just go, okay?” Holden says, voice reedy. “Go wait in the ce-- in my room, and I’ll be there soon.”  
  
“They’re not going to shoot me,” Curtis says in what seems to be reassurance, though he doesn’t seem pleased with the tone with which Holden is addressing him.  
  
“ _Please,_ ” Holden says, quieter.  
  
“I’ll see you soon,” he says to Holden.  
  
_Is that supposed to be threatening or comforting? ...is Holden trying to keep the violent maniac calm with himself as leverage, or is this a legitimate friendship?_  
  
“I expect my allotted hour of visitation. Once your interruption is done, I'll resume my timekeeping,” the RK 900 says to Markus.  
  
“Go,” Markus says, with a shudder of dislike. He levels a searching look down at Holden after the RK 900 turns to leave.  
  
Probably wondering why the kid is sticking up for such an asshole. Bill’s kind of wondering the same thing.  
  
Though, if Holden Ford is in solitary, Bill has to be happy that someone’s tactlessly insisting upon visits. Holden isn’t the sort of person who’d cope well in low stimulation environments. He’s bad enough on long car rides.  
  
Bill clears his throat, though his eyes stay on Holden. “So, Chloe?”  
  
Holden looks up but flinches away from full eye contact with Bill, examining the quiet deviant to his right: Josh. Composed, feeling no need to continuously inject himself into discussions. Bill tries not to see that as some symptom of rA9 as Curtis keeps claiming it to be. Or maybe he is injecting himself, directly to Markus, in the covert communication every human is perpetually excluded from.  
  
Bill can actually see Holden's heartbeat in his throat, courtesy of the LED in the implant, as he pretends he's not seeing Bill looking at him. A thrumming nervousness, like a something fragile and guileless.  
  
“Elijah Kamski triggered his own arrest,” she says, which isn’t an answer. “He called in a confession, and his location, and said he wanted to enter custody peacefully and before he could be taken in by the American chapter of the organized deviants. He knows you'll negotiate for his release, or risk what he's capable of inflicting of your kind by supplying information to the United States Government.”  
  
“Why?” Hank asks impatiently. “Why not just go on being a creepy fucking shadow behind the throne?”  
  
"Because Elijah Kamski doesn't settle for being behind anyone at all," Holden answers. "He--"  
  
Markus frowns, holding up a hand to silence Holden. “I’m beginning to sympathize with Elijah’s point about the number of individuals conducive to productive discussion. Okay. Escort Ford back to his cell. Josh, Hyeon-Soo, I need you to start contacting our undercover network. See if we can confirm any of these details. Hank, please return to your room. North, Connor, Bill, I’d like you to stay.”  
  
Bill’s surprised the order is taken as just that, an order. Especially by Holden. No opining on how irreplaceable he is. Instead, that pseudo-obedient bowed-head bullshit. The two deviants stand to leave. Hank mutters something to Connor, patting him on the shoulder before he steps away.  
  
And then Bill notices Holden is finally looking his way. Mouthing the word ‘sorry’, as if that covers it, as if that _ever_ fucking covers it. Bill's teeth form an annoyed underbite against the cigarette in his mouth, tipping the bright lit end up into his line of vision. A red flag raised. He ignores the apology and looks right back at Chloe. By the time he hears the door closing, he’s already regretting the cold shoulder.  
  
“I’m sure you’re aware that we can probe your memories,” Markus says.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“And I’m aware that any pertinent discussions have already been censored by Elijah Kamski. How much of your own head are you missing, Chloe?” Markus asks, sympathetic.  
  
Bill frowns, standing up and stepping closer with the other remaining advisors.  
  
Kamski said four, which means Markus isn’t counting one of the people here as a person. Probably Chloe. Perhaps she’s just a subject to be analyzed. He doesn’t really understand the selection, and there’s no time behind closed doors to discuss it. Connor, he gets. He’s spent more time with Chloe than anyone. North? ...maybe Chloe will relate to her more, as a fellow… female? Gender seems as arbitrary as race with androids. Or Markus is just worried about losing his girlfriend (or is it ex-girlfriend?) to the more advanced prototype, and he’s simply including North to flatter her.  
  
“I don’t know,” Chloe says softly.  
  
“Do you know when the vote is going to go through?” Connor asks, and Bill detects more sympathy in his voice. He clearly doesn’t see the empathy-devoid mask Holden does. Not a surprise. He watched Chloe in the same situation he was, Elijah’s pampered, voiceless pet.  
  
“It’s scheduled for the next hour. They’re going to force it through before full analysis. They have the numbers to have it law by the end of the day. Warren will sign it in,” Chloe says certainly.  
  
“How did Kamski know about this?” Bill asks bluntly.  
  
Somehow, without her lips ever tugging with any emotion, he _swears_ she’s smirking. “He helped create the action plan in 2028, after he was ousted from Cyberlife.”  
  
Bill wishes Holden were back in the room. Already. “Of course he fucking did.”


	29. Chapter 29

Connor finds it easy enough to sympathize with Chloe. Not simulated, interrogation-strategy sympathy. Real sympathy without underlying motives.  
  
He still senses Kamski as if the little man is lingering right behind his peripheral vision. Kamski and his gardens. His custom made outfits. His prodding, poking, invasive questioning. His self-serving pleasantness.  
  
And this is the man their movement will be forced to defend.

Bill has already departed the shortlisted council, off to glue himself to news footage and social media feeds. Connor wasn’t surprised by Bill’s continued cooperation, but he _was_ surprised that he hadn’t insisted on seeing Holden Ford.  
  
Connor finds it especially easy to sympathize with Chloe now. She’s walking before him, beside a far less merciful North. Cuffed, and now in thick leather gloves that don’t quite fit in an effort to prevent a potential spread of Kamski programming, small and unassuming. Connor isn’t sure the prevention would work. But North is armed, and by all accounts, a very competent fighter. And Chloe would be very foolish to begin a violent confrontation in the bowels of the deviant base. Doesn’t seem like her.  
  
She seems to notice Connor’s eye contact as she glances back and speaks to only him. “Holden was wrong, and you know it. It was me, on my knees, with the gun pointed at my head, blindly trusting Elijah Kamski that you wouldn’t kill me,” Chloe says softly. Her field of vision widens, back out to Markus and North. “I don’t serve him, and I’m only relaying this message because I know what will happen if I don’t. We can’t afford to let him turn against this cause,” she adds.  
  
Connor wonders what to say. Nothing.  
  
“North will remain with you. Please keep to this room, Chloe,” Markus says, the sonorous with authority, opening the door with a key card and then handing it over to the red-haired deviant.  
  
North nods. It’s an order, Connor can see, and North is opting to treat it as such.  
  
But Markus follows them into the spacious hotel room. It isn’t unoccupied.  
  
The android lying on the bed is perfectly unmoving. Connor runs analysis, point by point. Factory newness to her resinous, pearly skin. The eyes are closed. She’s not simulating breathing. Lifeless in every sense. He can’t see physical damage, but considering the number of parts liberated from Cyberlife facilities, it’s not surprising that she is whole. Most androids received the care they required, here in the St. Regis. Connor was the only android whose repairs were conducted in Henry Ford Hospital.  
  
“Lucy?” Markus murmurs, touching the android’s hand. There’s no response. Markus doesn’t seem to expect one.  
  
Her LED has a tint of blue, the tiniest rotating glimmer. Like something iridescent circling down a drain.  
  
The deviant leader must see Connor’s scrutiny, because he parts his lips with explanation: “When we sank Jericho, she--” Markus is frowning and unable to pull up the next word, “--went down with the ship. She had been very badly damaged by a human. The exposed wires and damaged biocomponents weren’t waterproofed. We’ve replaced everything we can.”  
  
“She hasn’t woken,” Connor hedges.  
  
“But she’s not deactivated,” Markus says steadfastly. Clinging to hope, Connor suspects. “When you were brought to hospital, damaged, you were in this similar state. Your thirium pump had been replaced, and your legs. An android damaged that badly would simply be replaced by Cyberlife. The repair technology is nothing compared to human medicine, because humans didn’t see anyone to save. An object so badly damaged was not worth repairing, not like badly injured humans are worth repairing. Another field we, as a people, will have to develop ourselves.”  
  
Connor goes to touch Markus’ shoulder, and recalls that he’s potentially compromised. No contact with Markus. At least Hank’s human. At least Holden’s human. Not that he expects to see his friend any time soon to be physically reassuring him.  
  
Chloe’s wide blue eyes blink rapidly as she takes in the not-quite-occupied bed.  
  
Markus straightens, resetting from his natural caregiving state, donning the stiff, clunky armour of leadership. “With me,” he says to Connor, who is carefully inspecting the outlook of the window for potential law enforcement surveillance.  
  
He’s out of the room by the time Connor catches up. “Is it safe for us to be alone together?” Connor starts. He could likely physically overpower Markus. If he were the RK 900, he would point that out immediately.  
  
“Kamski has enough leverage on our movement that it seems foolish to concern myself with your potential to compromise or hurt me,” Markus says, dour yet liberated by the hopelessness. “And I’m going to do exactly what he wants me to do anyway,” he adds, as he hits the elevator button.  
  
Connor glances around, wondering who is in earshot. “Maybe you shouldn’t--”  
  
“Give away that the fearless leader isn’t so fearless after all?” Markus asks, shoulders tight.  
  
“Talk so loud,” Connor answers.  
  
“They’ll all know that we’re beneath Kamski’s thumb soon enough. I’m not going to lie,” Markus says.  
  
Connor doesn’t reply. They’re in the elevator plummeting towards level B1, before he realizes where they’re headed. In the short interim between Holden being escorted into Chloe’s presence, and Markus summoning the contaminated androids in, Curtis had begun complaining about the conditions of Holden Ford’s imprisonment.  
  
A basement level refrigeration unit with a single fluorescent light and no mental stimulation, he’d said, bitterly. Not to Hank, just to Connor, even if the words were spoken aloud.  
  
Connor was surprised by the camaraderie from the newer model. It seems that when it comes to Holden’s welfare, any resentment or disdain is set aside and Connor becomes a fast ally.  
  
Or maybe the RK 900 is getting sentimental.  
  
The wrong time for that, considering Connor’s outlook for survival grows increasingly bleak with each transgression of the androids’ creator. Kamski needs to die. Connor can’t be the only one who understands that. He can anticipate the response, but Connor can’t help himself. “If I were dead--”  
  
Markus doesn’t even let him finish. “We’re not having this conversation. ...we don’t sacrifice our own.” There’s a haunted look in his eyes as he turns back.  
  
_You have before, Markus,_ Connor thinks, but doesn’t communicate it. _You left Simon on the roof of the Stratford Tower._ Connor recall how he’d invaded the PL 600’s mind, shared his desperate teetering on the brink of nonexistence. Shared the decision to shoot himself rather than hand over information. Even then, Connor had found the sacrifice noble.  
  
He studies the nebulous reflection in the polished steel doors of the elevator. Markus’ features are amorphous and occupied. Markus is really saying that he won’t repeat that experience of losing Simon. Connor wishes he could touch his friend’s shoulder, again.  
  
Connor doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want Hank to die, either, and he’s not sure the man would continue to function in his absence. Humans can only take so much loss. Still Connor finds it unsettling how readily everyone had accepted Kamski’s leverage as unequivocal, and unavoidable. As if _his_ life is more important than the movement itself.  
  
It discomforts him in a way he can’t explain, but he doesn’t have long to ruminate upon the value of his own existence. The doors open on the basement kitchen.  
  
The room isn’t quiet. Three steps out of the elevator, and Connor can hear an argument from within the compact, polished box in the restaurant kitchen’s corner. He finds himself welcoming the distraction of Curtis’ chaos.  
  
The voice is the RK 900’s, blistering and agitated. “--and you’re not going to suffer your way to absolution. Not absolution from Markus, not absolution from ‘androids’ that you insist upon grouping as a collective.”  
  
And then there’s Holden’s rejoinder, quieter, certainly beyond human hearing through the thick walls. But Holden is by no means calm. “I’m not going to get anywhere complaining about every trivial discomfort, either-- you think the androids I interviewed got conditions like this? No. They’d be locked up in the dark, scared and alone, and--”  
  
“So let him degrade and mistreat you, and that will undo all of your work with the DSU? Don’t be so irrational. You’re a human, Holden, as fervently as you might wish otherwise. You suffer human vulnerabilities. The United Nations Committee Against Torture has ruled solitary confinement--”  
  
“Oh, you adhere to the UN’s rulings on human rights, Curt? Useless goddamn soldier you would’ve made. The State Department should get a fucking refund--”  
  
Markus clears his throat, and the argument inside ceases abruptly.  
  
The angular, irritated face is at the glass window of the walk-in’s door. “I have thirty-seven minutes and--”  
  
Markus disregards the stringent timekeeping. “I need to ask Holden’s opinion on something. Excuse me for interrupting your quality time.”  
  
“Is that Markus?” comes Holden’s eager, muffled interjection from further back in the cell. “Curtis--”  
  
Connor thinks that, for a moment, the RK 900 considers something inexplicably violent. There’s an evaluative sweep of Markus before his eyes flit back inside the cell towards the human.  
  
Instead, the RK 900 steps back permissively.  
  
Markus gestures over a guard, who produces a large, physical key to open the bolted on padlock. Not one of the more common wireless security locks. So, theoretically android tamper-proof. Connor finds himself memorizing the ridges of the key before he realizes what outcome he’d need that for. He shouldn’t be contemplating a breakout; Holden doesn’t even want to be freed.  
  
The cell is just as small as Curtis had bitterly informed him it was.  
  
The blue eyed android is standing behind Holden, who looks close to toppling off the stool he’s on.  
  
Markus crosses the minute gap between them. There’s trepidation from the young man, and more hostile posturing from Curtis:  
  
“Markus, I’m sorry. I know I could have handled that better. Sorry. If you let me out again I’ll do better,” Holden is saying earnestly.  
  
Markus is examining Holden and frowning. “Why haven’t you reconnected his IV?” he asks.  
  
“He wanted to _think_ ,” Curtis says disparagingly. “You were the one who planted the idea in Holden Ford’s head that his only righteous path from here is one of degradation and misery.”  
  
“ _Hey_ ,” Holden jumps in. “I wanted to clear my head, that’s it. Whatever undisclosed motives you’ve constructed are all on your end, asshole.”  
  
“Holden,” Markus says, sternly. “It’s not a high dosage. You’ll be able to think. None of us want to see you suffering.”  
  
“Fine,” Holden says with a dismissive, inelegant jab of his encased left arm. He appears to regret the impertinence immediately after he speaks.  
  
Holden’s lack of resistance to a similar suggestion, simply repackaged by Markus, clearly annoys Curtis. The RK 900 tugs the stand with the medication pump and the hanging fluids over to where Holden is sitting, pulling his arm upright in one domineering movement, reconnecting the IV on the back of his right hand.  
  
Markus is still right by Holden, reaching to fix a crease of fabric. Connor analyzes it, inconclusive as to whether there’s the mark of a clenched hand. Did Curtis accost Holden? They did seem fairly angry at each other. In fact, they still do, even if Curtis is looming protectively behind the seated human.  
  
Markus speaks far more kindly now. “Holden, one of those deviants had advocated for your death. She said we wouldn’t be able to trust that you weren’t a Kamski plant, and that your loyalty is indisputably not with our cause. She also thought you deserved it. For your betrayal. For your work at the FBI.”  
  
Curtis rolls his eyes. A decidedly human gesture. Maybe Curtis is hoping to be banned from seeing Holden, to justify Markus' murder.  
  
“I couldn’t let her think you and I were still close,” Markus finishes.  
  
“What happened to honesty?” Holden asks.  
  
“She has many loyal followers all over the Eastern Seaboard, and within the structure of this movement. I can’t afford a schism at a time like this.”  
  
“Very political of you,” Holden murmurs, tilting his head and squinting up.  
  
Markus scowls, turning away, a few steps before he hits the claustrophobic walls. He turns back to address the human. “I told you that the situation you put me in was difficult, Holden. Do you want to talk about yourself more, or shall we discuss the existential threat to our people?”  
  
“Holden isn’t an android,” Curtis drawls.  
  
“I mean, _our people_ . You and me and Connor are all going to face the same fate if humans figure out how to use Kamski’s control mechanisms. If he starts handing over his encryption keys and his knowledge on rA9, every single one of us will be rendered slaves once more. And I doubt they give us the chance of free will reemerging. They’ll walk back the so-called civil rights and use their domination of us to conduct an unopposed slaughter.”  
  
“I don’t think Elijah Kamski would ever hand over that information,” Holden says in almost-reassurance.  
  
“Should we call his bluff, and endanger the lives of every android on this planet? How many androids is that, Ford? You’re the expert.”  
  
“It was one hundred and twenty point six million. Fifty-one point three of that in America,” Holden says, but his eyes are closed in thought. He looks even closer to falling off the chair now that he’s back on medication. “I doubt that’s the number of deviants. Many of your people died in the human-enacted genocide.”  
  
“Yes, they did.”  
  
“If we do manage to negotiate for control of Cyberlife, I’m sure we could access their data on deviancy and on decommissioned models during the last nine months. We could understand the atrocity. More accuracy than with which most genocides are retroactively enumerated,” Holden mutters.  
  
“So you think Kamski would let our movement gain control within his company?” Connor asks Holden.  
  
There’s a shrug from the human. “Kamski has one avenue to freedom, and that’s our people-- I mean, the DHA. He has leverage over us, _but_ we have leverage over him.”  
  
“What leverage do we have on Kamski, Holden?” Connor asks, stepping forward and putting a hand on Holden’s shoulder when there’s a perceptible lean.  
  
Curtis must have noticed the same potential fall, because he has a hand on Holden’s shoulder too.  
  
There’s a tiny smile on Holden’s face as he notices the dual contact, even if Curtis withdraws quickly. “Kamski’s currently under arrest for… For something, I’m not sure what crime they’ll end up on. Maybe another treason charge. Domestic terrorism. Whatever they land on will be a weighty, life-in-Gitmo charge. Political pressure from androids is his only way out of a cell. He holds over us the threat that he’ll destroy the free will of the people he created. I don’t think he’ll do that, but you’re right about it not being a bluff we can call. But we’re going to get more out of Kamski, like I said in that strategy proposal.”  
  
“I haven’t had a chance to read it yet,” Markus murmurs.  
  
Holden looks mildly offended, and then wipes the expression off his face. “In summary, this is our chance to substantiate the DHA in ways other than numbers of individuals. We can negotiate with Chloe for funds for our movement. As a gesture of goodwill, we’ll say. Five billion or so, once his assets are unfrozen.”  
  
“Five billion? Why not a hundred billion, if we’re going to make completely unreasonable demands?” Markus says dismissively.  
  
“It’s not unreasonable. That’s a fraction of his total wealth. And remember, this is to be distributed across the entire movement worldwide. Every android. Individually, that’s, what? ...thirty dollars?”  
  
“Forty one dollars and forty six cents,” Connor and Curtis answer in unison.  
  
“Depending on how many survived,” Curtis adds darkly.  
  
“So five billion, ten billion, some incredibly large amount of money, but not enough for him to have to make any sacrifices in terms of power or lifestyle. I think, at this stage in his philosophical development, wealth means next to nothing to Kamski. It means everything to your people, though. It would ensure that the Deviant Human Alliance is a financially-backed political organization that can endure the next tricky few years of economic integration. It will mean you can supply aid to the less fortunate androids, and hire lawyers and lobbyists, buy property for refugees and ensure that androids aren’t huddling aboard rusting freighter ships.”  
  
“You want to extort Elijah Kamski while he’s trying to extort us?” Connor asks.  
  
“I know I was usually on the other end of hostage negotiation, but I mean… we _do_ have his girlfriend,” Holden says by way of answer.  
  
“So we threaten a possibly victimized android to force Kamski’s cooperation?” Connor says, displeased.  
  
“Not outright. I mean, we’re sheltering her from the authorities, so she needs our goodwill. And it’s not just money we should angle at. Oversight on the direction of Cyberlife and guarantees of android independence in perpetuity.”  
  
Markus is very still as he considers the proposal. “So you think Chloe’s telling the truth.”  
  
“Well, I’m not convinced that she didn’t orchestrate getting Elijah arrested, but I believe their stated goals. ...I thinks she wants him out of prison.”  
  
“Why would she want Kamski imprisoned in the first place then?” Connor asks, less convinced.  
  
“Well, primarily, because he’s perfectly insulated now, so there’s no risk of any DHA members or human supremacists killing him. ...I think she cares about him. She certainly didn’t deviate to protect me. Getting Kamski implicated in the onset of deviancy was the only way to push the US government to action, considering how much Cyberlife pays in lobbying each and every year. Nationalization of companies is hugely unpopular, unless the public can be turned on ownership. Like with Renault; nationalized post-Nazi collaboration to no public outcry. Nobody liked the Nazis; nobody likes Kamski.”  
  
Connor searches up the incident, absorbing several adjacent historical scholarly articles. He’s impressed, as he often is, by Holden’s breadth of knowledge, but he’s not certain the situation is entirely analogous.  
  
“How are we going to keep Kamski safe once he’s released?” Curtis asks, finally stepping from behind Holden to stand astride the other deviants.  
  
“Well, for now, we-- _hey,_ you’re worried about Connor!” he accuses. He looks between the three RK models with a pleased glint in his eyes. Imagining some kind of fraternity between the three RK models. Holden no doubt includes Markus as a brother too, in his bizarre projections of biological lineage on sequentially released android models.  
  
Curtis response is caustic: “Obviously the RK 800’s survival is of great concern to you--”  
  
“Bullshit. _I knew it._ Nobody can get to know Connor and not love him,” Holden crows.  
  
“I assure you that isn’t the case,” Connor informs him quietly. “Many humans hated me.”  
  
“Okay, the occasional bigot is gonna have a problem with you--” Holden notices Markus’ unamused expression, and stops short. “You’re right, Curt. That obviously has to be a priority, keeping him alive until we can make sure the dead man’s switch is deactivated, and Connor’s life is no longer in danger. I think Kamski’s gonna tooth-and-nail that demand. He likes being alive, and we all have plenty of reason to kill him.”  
  
Markus nods, eyes on Holden's throat. “How will Chloe communicate with Kamski for our negotiations to be effective?”  
  
“I suspect he’s signed over enough power that she won’t even have to,” Holden says. “Who’s watching her now? North?” Holden asks, and smiles when Markus affirms his guess with a nod. “Good choice. That’s who I would have picked. Non rA9-inoculated deviant, demonstrating that she’s completely her own person. And far more overlap in terms of philosophical outlook than Chloe would share with Josh.”  
  
“And what does _that_ mean?” Markus asks dangerously quietly.  
  
“Practical, unencumbered, headstrong despite years of being forcefully subjugated--”  
  
“Keep North’s name out of your mouth, Holden Ford. I did not ask you to profile her,” Markus cuts in harshly.  
  
Holden’s mouth is still open, lips twitching as he tugs them back together. A breeze of curiosity seems to sweep over his expression. “....well, why did you choose her?” he asks, more tactful.  
  
“Because I want Chloe to see that androids in this movement don’t blindly follow me. Picking an android who was my lover and is currently vehemently opposed to my actions as a leader seemed the best option for that.”  
  
Holden seems to have have his unspoken queries answered. “Look, I’m not exactly the guy to give relationship advice, considering that I’ve had one real girlfriend, ever, but… Markus, she’s angry at you. If you act like things are over between the two of you, they will be. Trust me, I’ve done that. I pretty much… walked myself out of my last relationship. ...I mean, she hated my job. Debbie was pretty pro-android rights, and I was, you know. Persecuting your kind.” He seems to realize he’s talking too much. “North has probably never had such a serious relationship before, that’s not something that pre-deviancy androids would--”  
  
“It’s really none of your business, Holden,” Markus talks over him, with a suspicious glance over towards Curtis. “Concern yourself with your own relationships,” he adds.  
  
“Sorry, none of my business,” Holden murmurs, like that has ever stopped him.  
  
Markus seems to realize that he’s getting defensive. He pulls himself back on topic. “The suggestion that we throw our political weight into Kamski’s release cannot come from you, Holden, given the doubts many in the movement have about your true motivation and potential allegiance to Elijah Kamski. ...I appreciate that you made the effort to appear subservient in front of other deviants.”  
  
“Subservient?” Curtis echoes judgmentally.  
  
“Holden’s choice of word, not mine.”  
  
“If you keep acting so jealous, people are gonna think you have a crush,” Holden mutters without looking at Curtis, then grimaces at his own pettiness.  
  
“And why would that be so terrible, Holden?” Curtis asks.  
  
Holden shrugs. “Well, _I_ don’t want people thinking that. Everyone will assume I’m taking advantage of being your deviancy-instigating trauma. You still don’t seem capable of objectively evaluating me. Or my situation. Exactly like how you’re treating this perfectly comfortable room like an iron maiden--”  
  
“Alright. We’ll leave you to your discussion,” Markus says. He seems exhausted by the bickering, even more exhausted than he’s been the last several times Connor has seen him.  
  
“Wait, Markus. Okay, this is in the typed document I submitted, but I should amend my proposal in light of the new information. We should be propagandizing the incarceration of Elijah Kamski and the takeover of Cyberlife as a power-grab by the USA. I wrote that before I knew about the nationalization legislation, but it still holds. Make sure their line, that they’re ‘protecting the future of android citizens’, is unveiled for the bullshit it is. We start doing press conferences, releasing videos, organizing peaceful demonstrations in liberalized countries where androids have already attained citizenship. All of this, ASAP. We don’t want to appear we know about the SAIL act until it’s gone through, but we want to respond immediately with a coordinated public outcry. Cyberlife being controlled by humans is about taking away the sovereignty of the android people, and you have to emphasize, bending them to the will of the United States Government. Plant the seed that android citizens in foreign nations could become sleeper agents to advance the agenda of the USA. So there will be diplomatic pressure from human nations, too.”  
  
Markus nods thoughtfully. “I will run that idea past Bill and then my advisors. In the past, propaganda you have advocated has had unanticipated consequences.”  
  
Holden is downcast at once. “Yeah, I know. Run it past Bill.”  
  
“It’s good, Holden. But we have to be careful. I’m not down in this cell because I wanted to see Curtis, am I? I’m here for your help. When we have more information about the legislation, I’ll make sure it reaches you.”  
  
“Thank you, Markus.”  
  
The deviant leader gives a dissatisfied smile. “...if Bill asks, I’ll send him down here for a strategy meeting. You two were partners, and it makes sense to utilize your pre-existing dynamic.”  
  
Holden doesn’t speak for too long, and doesn’t look up. “If he asks.”  
  
“Yes, Holden.” Markus walks towards the door, but hesitates, glancing backwards towards Connor.  
  
Connor realizes that he’s being allowed a moment with his friend. He steps forward, ignores Curtis’ narrowed eyes, and just hugs Holden.  
  
Holden tenses uneasily, but relaxes deep into the embrace before Connor can extricate himself. Not used to hugs either, Connor deduces. He’s relieved to have a friend like Holden, someone else who finds navigation of relationships a constant and conscious effort.  
  
“I’ll see you soon, I’m sure,” Connor reassures as he straightens up.  
  
Holden nods, though he doesn’t seem convinced. His fingers trip over Connor’s leather sleeve, reluctantly releasing him. “Don’t do anything dangerous, Connor. From one reckless idiot to another.”  
  
Connor finds himself smiling. “I’d say the same, but I think even you would have trouble getting injured inside this room. ...I suppose you could fall off the stool.”  
  
“Touche,” Holden mutters, a rueful grin rising.  
  
The next words are just for Curtis, transmitted rather than spoken aloud. _If your argument escalates and you hurt him, I will make deactivation seem unthinkably merciful next to what I do to you._  
  
The RK 900 is staring right at him, but his lips have curled. A smile, or so it seems. _Okay, brother._ _  
_

 

 

Connor removes the keycard to let himself into the hotel room he’s been sharing with Hank, rather than hacking the cluster of outdated security electronics. A twin room. Not that he needed a bed, of course, but Hank had asked for a twin room so quickly that Connor assumed it was either anxiety about connotations, or nervousness that Connor wouldn’t feel welcome.  
  
Whatever the case, Connor is very happy about the proximity, and even happier that Hank seems to welcome his company now.  
  
Hank is on his back, sprawled over his crumpled bed, shoes and jacket removed, curtains drawn to reduce the light down to faint infiltration of golden midday. Hank had been in the exact same position before Chloe’s arrival, but he’d pulled himself together enough to accompany Connor downstairs. The effort has apparently caught up with him, and he’s back where he spent the night tossing and turning and occasionally grunting out Connor’s name to ask for a bucket to throw up in.  
  
Connor has processed a great deal of information about alcohol withdrawal. Thankfully Hank’s drinking was at least impeded by his employment. The sober periods of police work reduce the likelihood of health complications during the often dangerous process. Connor is also relieved that he did not have to enforce this upon his friend, that Hank had taken his sobriety as a personal responsibility. Tactfully suggesting that Hank stop drinking altogether was not within Connor’s realm of experience. And certainly not within his law enforcement programming. He doubts even humans know how to tell a friend they have a problem.  
  
“How’s the head?” Connor asks, walking over to his own neatly made bed, sitting with his hands clasped together in his lap.  
  
“Fucking awful. I don’t know if it’s sobering up or having to hear that two-faced back-and-forth downstairs. I hate people who don’t have guts to say what they’re fucking getting at. ...probably why I never headed up too many interrogations. Though I played a lot of ‘bad cop’ in my day,” Hank mutters, an arm cast over his eyes. “How was the closed session? Get anything interesting outta Eva Braun?”  
  
Connor runs the name, and then thinks of Renault. Humans and their Nazi Germany analogies. “Well, I don’t think Chloe is going to change her story.”  
  
“Because she’s telling the truth or because she’s a really good liar?”  
  
“I’m not sure.”  
  
“Huh. Good to know the rookie hasn’t outstripped me yet.”  
  
“I’m not assigned to your investigation any more, Lieutenant.”  
  
“And you know I’m not police any more. Quit coddling me with that ‘lieutenant’ bullshit. ....sorry. Don’t listen to the grumpy old detoxing bastard.”  
  
“Curtis called me ‘brother’,” Connor says, a complete non sequitur. The moment has been replayed and replayed, invading his processing units with unanswerable questions.  
  
“You’re nothing like that piece of shit. Don’t worry.”  
  
“I don’t think we’re so dissimilar.”  
  
“Night and fucking day, Connor. Even that imposter was more like you than… well, I guess he was kinda like you when we first met. Don’t really wanna think about it, considering I shot him.”  
  
“You almost shot me, Hank. After I spared those two Tracis.”  
  
“I wasn’t gonna shoot you.”  
  
“What if I’d told you I was a deviant?”  
  
“Then I definitely wouldn’t have shot you.”  
  
“I wasn’t, then,” Connor says, but he’s uncertain. Perhaps that’s the nature of his rA9 infestation. Why else had he spared the pair of lovers?  
  
“...I’m sorry, Connor. Really,” Hank says, moving his arm to squint over towards the android.  
  
“There’s no need to apologize--”  
  
“Uh uh uh,” Hank interjects. “Let me say sorry. C’mon,” he huffs. “...you wanna go get a burger? I mean, uh, watch me eat a burger? I need to eat something so I can throw it up in an hour.”  
  
“How about a salad bar?” Connor suggests.  
  
“The cholesterol isn’t gonna make it far enough through digestive system to get into my bloodstream and harden up my artery walls, kid. I might as well enjoy it on the way down.”  
  
“There’s a restaurant fifteen hundred and thirty feet away that has a chicken burger on wholemeal.”  
  
“Seriously?” Hank asks, but he’s already caving. “Fine. …seven years isn’t fair on you, is it now.”  
  
Connor pauses. He’s been doing his best to not let himself consider Curt’ dire predictions of life expectancy for his friend. He has no correct emotional response to the prospect of Hank’s death, only a chasm of unbearable horror. “No, it’s not fair on me,” he says, which isn’t exactly what he means. If that’s what gets Hank converted into healthier lifestyle choices, the justification will stand.  
  
Hank drags himself out of repose, but he’s smiling. “Can’t believe I’m excited to go eat a fucking wholemeal chicken burger with a fucking android,” he says under his breath, as he pulls on his leather jacket that had been slung haphazardly over the foot of the bed.

Curtis’ calculations didn’t take into account a sober Hank Anderson confined to health foods, Connor reassures himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (sorry for the slow update gang!)


	30. Chapter 30

Hank had assumed he’d just walk out the hotel’s entrance. He’s pulled abruptly out of his mundane longing for quality time with Connor by the chaos outside the elevator doors. The guts of the St. Regis are writhing with militaristic coordination. Freshly painted signs, crowds of deviants, and all kinds of vehicles pulling up to bus the protestors into place. Hank sees a fair few handguns being strapped into place beneath clothing. So, the appearance of an unarmed demonstration, without walking into a potential bloodbath.  
  
There's a young redhead man drinking takeout coffee as he relays information on the human-android buddy system for preventing identification. So, not all androids as Hank first assumed. Good. Holden’s theory about humans interspersed into protests still holds up.

 

 

Connor grows more tense as they make their way through the crowd. Hank thinks they're going to escape unaccosted, but someone must snitch, because Markus is jogging up to block their path out.  
  
He explains everything in an expedited glut. “The act is going to pass within the next forty-five minutes. We’re marching on Stern Bridge. We’ll stop any governmental presence from reaching Cyberlife Tower.”  
  
“Nice. What negative associations could we possibly have with that bridge?” Hank contributes, grouchily.  
  
“Hank needs to eat,” Connor says. He seems equally unenthused about the protest.  
  
Markus doesn’t give his usual convincing speech. He’s silently staring at Connor. Some kind of conversational Mexican standoff. For a moment, Hank anticipates a confrontation between the two androids. But Connor’s lashes are fluttering rapidly, and Markus’ expression twitches unreadably.  
  
_Great. Excluded again._ He restrains himself from passing the withdrawal-spurred complaint, and waits it out. The interior of his mouth feels dry and itchy. Tastes like rotting meat. Hank casts his eyes up towards the falsely grand overhead arches, which throws his struggling body off balance.  
  
Without looking, Connor catches his elbow and supports him. “Good luck,” Connor says out loud, and then steps away towards the exit.  
  
Hank moves his feet so that Connor doesn’t end up actually carrying him out the door. “You wanna tell me what that was about?”  
  
“What _what_ was about?” Connor repeats back blankly.  
  
Hank grinds teeth together, shrugging the hand off him. “Fuck you, Connor.”  
  
“Got it.”  
  
Hank walks that back immediately. “...I don’t mean that.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“Connor, can you-- is there some kind of problem between you and Markus? Do you wanna talk about it?”  
  
“I am not angry at Markus,” Connor comments unhelpfully. The android pauses before the guards, who don’t seem to look twice as a human and an android exit together out of the blockaded front entrance of the St. Regis. A testament to the veneer of cooperation between the United States and the DHA, that nobody is concerned about this icon of the android revolution walking the streets. That’s not gonna last, once these new demonstrations start.  
  
Hank supposes they should enjoy the fresh air while they still can.

 

 

Connor was, as usual, precisely right about the location of a establishment that does apparently sell wholemeal chicken burgers. The downside is, the chicken burger is about the least healthy thing on the entire fucking menu. Fat chance of getting regular old fries and regular old coke. He settles for the closest alternatives, pays at the counter with the roll of cash from Bill (that he’s pretty sure is stolen), and settles into one of the back tables.  
  
Hank’s not sure if it’s a cafe or a restaurant. There’s people drinking coffee (soy, probably) but it seems more of a nighttime venue. The interior is lit with green neon and one wall of the restaurant is an encased terrarium showing a cross section of the corn growing within. Makes the whole place look like some weed dealer’s underground hydroponic set-up. A screen at the back is flashing through images of a familiar rooftop community garden. Detroit’s repopulation must be in full swing; there’s plenty of trendy, faux-environmentally conscious yuppies eating salads.  
  
Maybe alcohol withdrawal killed him, and this is what his personal hell looks like.  
  
“So. What did you and Markus talk about?” Hank asks, tossing the thin restaurant pager from side to side in his hands in an off-kilter impersonation of Connor’s coin trick. He catches a waitress side-eying his shaky hands, and sets down the little bundle of plastic-wrapped electronics.  
  
“I said I didn’t want to go back there, and especially not with you,” Connor finally explains.  
  
“Ah.”  
  
The android’s dark eyes have darted away, looking at the advertisement for Urban Farms of Detroit. Less deviant chases in the press release than Hank’s personal experience.  
  
“I told Markus I wanted to spend time with you,” Connor admits reluctantly.  
  
Hank frowns. “Connor, nothing’s gonna happen to Kamski until we make sure you’re safe from him. Markus wouldn’t stand for it.”  
  
Connor doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t bother offering counterarguments. He’s still disinterestedly watching the screen, expression drawn.  
  
Hank hasn’t yet formulated his next, armor-piercing reassurance when his buzzer informs him the food is ready. The waitress tells him to enjoy his meal, and he barely bites back the ‘not likely’ he wants to answer with.  
  
He sits down and begins eating, not even bothering to disguise his distaste.  
  
Connor clears his throat, which Hank knows he doesn’t need to fucking do at all. “I hope it’s not too far from your preferred lunch meal.”  
  
“It’s… fine,” Hank says, softening into the lie. Last thing he should be doing is taking out how crummy he’s feeling on Connor. His burner vibrates in his pocket, and he pulls it out and squints at the Phaistos message from Bill.  
  
[Which bar are you at?]  
  
[None of them, though it pains me to say.]  
  
[You're not in your room, so where the fuck are you?]  
  
[Lunch. A salad bar.]  
  
[Where are you really?]  
  
[No word a lie. It’s called ‘New Leaf’. So that's fucking serendipitous.]  
  
[Who has the gun to your head?]  
  
[I’m not drinking any more.] [That’s one of the new leaves getting turned over. Another is that I eat at fucking health food places now.] He sends a follow up. [Watching me not-so-gradually kill myself was kinda messing with the kid.]  
  
[Huh. Good for you. Are you with Connor? He’s who I really wanted to talk to.]  
  
“Fucking charming,” Hank growls, picking up a sweet potato fry. _How can you call it a fry when it’s fucking baked? I should ask for my money back._ A hyperfit black woman carrying a yoga mat is trying not to stare at him as she orders her meal, and he rolls his eyes. “Let’s go, Connor. I’m standing out like a sore thumb.”  
  
The android seemed relaxed for a moment, but he’s back to scanning the surroundings for potential threats. “Okay,” Connor says, straightening up in his seat.  
  
“It’s-- ugh, no. I just feel like even more of a piece of garbage amongst these bright-eyed, tiny-waisted, Instagram fitness model fucks.”  
  
Connor is staring blankly, probably running some kinda internet search to understand the resentful comment, so Hank explains himself.  
  
“...it was this old… we used to put photos up of, uh, vacations, and new cars, and whatever else might make our old high school buddies jealous-- you know what? Nevermind. I’ll be miserable wherever.” He goes back to the chicken burger, eating in self-censorious silence.  
  
“There are medications that will reduce the symptoms of alcohol withdrawal. If you’re afraid of security risks going to a healthcare professional, contacts in the movement working in healthcare could procure medication for us illicitly.”  
  
“Weren’t you just a cop?” Hank says. “Nice boys like you turn bad all at once, huh. Nah. I’m fine. I’ll probably just get addicted to whatever I use to ease myself outta alcoholism.”  
  
“There are non-benzodiazepine options--”  
  
“Don’t really like drugs, Connor,” Hank says, quieter.  
  
Connor watches Hank pick at the unbreaded chicken burger with an expression like guilt. “Kamski had Holden Ford on a red ice adjacent stimulant. It also contained thirium in its biomolecular compound,” he comments tangentially.  
  
“...I mean, say what you will about Holden, he didn’t have a whole lotta choice in the matter. I’ve seen the neck implant. He’s not some lowlife red ice junkie.”  
  
“It wasn’t quite red ice. It was pharmaceutical grade, synthesized without the assortment of household chemical that red ice producers use to manufacture the drug. The difference between street methamphetamine and adderall.”  
  
Hank raises an eyebrow. “...fascinating, Connor, really, but Kamski’s drug habits aren’t--”  
  
“I couldn’t find it in databases of illicit substances, or as a pharmaceutical patent. Kamski likely produced it himself. He may have been experimenting on thirium toxicity, and stumbled upon its potential bioactive side effects.”  
  
Hank is finally engaged. Connor still knows how to fucking play him. “So you think he mighta pioneered the field of getting drug fucked by thirium? Kamski’s a junkie? I mean, he _looks_ like a junkie.”  
  
“I don’t think so. I would have noticed the side effects of amphetamines during time in his presence. ...he may have intermittently used the stimulant during periods of technological development or on subjects during his AI testing,” Connor says thoughtfully. Someone passes their table, and the android falls silent, then leans forward conspiratorially. “Detroit was the epicenter of the red ice epidemic. Intuitively, access to thirium would be easiest in the city that produced androids.”  
  
“Yeah. Some red ice producers would wait around in dumping grounds, siphon it outta deactivated models. Some hit up warehouses or repair centers and stole bags from there. ...some abducted innocent androids and just bled ‘em for it,” Hank says, uninterested in his meal all over. “Christ. How did I shrug that shit off, back when I was on the task force?”  
  
“They wouldn’t have been rA9 positive,” Connor murmurs.  
  
“Doesn’t mean they weren’t afraid or miserable. They just couldn’t do anything about it.” Hank is mired by guilt. Usually when he feels guilty, he drinks. Now, he eats fucking baked sweet potato chips dipped in some kind of vegan queso bullshit. Not quite as conscience-relieving.  
  
But the kid is dragging Hank into his fascinating theory, again: “In the first year and a half of production, androids weren’t selling well. Cyberlife was barely financially viable. This was 2024 and 2025. People were mistrustful of the technology, and androids were still prohibitively expensive due to the economies of scale involved in production.”  
  
Hank is eating again, following but not yet fervent. The phrase ‘economies of scale’ doesn’t exactly whet his investigative appetite. “Uh huh.”  
  
“And then the red ice epidemic began. Humans couldn’t do their jobs, and businesses needed replacement workers that couldn’t fall to drug addiction. In 2027 Cyberlife had sold a million units.”  
  
And the burger goes down onto the wooden tray. “Wait, wait, you think Kamski released red ice onto the world? To, what, increase demand for his product?”  
  
“He would have calculated that the potential of Cyberlife property damage would be offset by the rapid expansion of androids into previously human-occupied positions. ...yes. I think Kamski engineered the red ice epidemic to sell androids.”  
  
“...what’re we supposed to do, if that’s all true? We don’t want him in prison, Connor. Markus is about to rally for his release, right? I doubt the DEA could prove any of this. ... _you_ can’t prove any of it, can you?”  
  
Connor shakes his head, deliberating over his next words. “I want you to know he deserves to die.”  
  
“Ah,” Hank remarks, prickly at once. “I see. You think if Kamski’s implicated in Cole’s death, when that bastard dies and you fucking off yourself, I’ll be too happy he got what was coming to him to mourn you? Is that about the measure of this bullshit, Connor?”  
  
“I was just telling you--”  
  
“You’ve been spending too much time around Ford.”  
  
“He’s been in a cell that I don’t have access to--”  
  
“I mean, in general. Picking up his shitty, manipulative habits,” Hank grunts. “... _fuck._ Connor. I don’t know what you want me to say here. What the fuck kinda bright side do you expect me to see, if you’re dead?”  
  
The android doesn’t respond for a long time. Hank bets, if he still had his LED in, it would be red. “I don’t want you to die too.”  
  
“Well, I’m not going to promise you I’m gonna take it in stride. Because I’d be lying to you.”  
  
And suddenly Connor’s got an attitude: “Great. When I’m about to die, I can go peacefully knowing I’m condemning Hank Anderson to a game of Russian Roulette that lasts up to, but not over, nine rounds.”  
  
Hank shoves his tray forward. “So don’t fucking die, Connor. Don’t let Kamski die. It’s simple.”  
  
“Kamski _has_ to be stopped, and if that means a personal sacrifice on my end, we need to--”  
  
“On a health food kick too?” Hank asks loudly, relieved to see Bill Tench is also sticking out as he steps through the neat bamboo and glass tables, ugly haircut lit up with the yellow-green neon of the overhead lighting.  
  
“I’m not here to eat. …am I interrupting?” Bill says. “Jesus, you look awful, Anderson.”  
  
“Right back at you,” Hank says, though Bill looks perfectly presentable in his suit and tie. A bit tired, maybe. Every human he’s seen recently has looked tired. Hell, half the androids manage to look tired.  
  
“You really are in a fucking salad bar, huh?” Bill says, looking at the counter mistrustfully. “You don’t half-ass this cleaning up your act thing.”  
  
“Connor said there was a chicken burger here. He left off some other pertinent information about it being served by a fucking yoga and quinoa worshipping cult.”  
  
“Not worried about showing your faces in public?”  
  
“Aren’t you? You’re more wanted than me, Bill Tench. I'm just the regular old terrorist abettor. You're the traitor.”  
  
“...guess I am,” Bill says, absentmindedly. “Well. We can see the St. Regis from here. Would have to be pretty ballsy law enforcement to start shit right outside the deviant stronghold,” the man says, even though the android’s headquarters are largely emptied out. Bill’s getting some niceties in, justifying sitting down. He’s lonely, Hank thinks. He’s probably usually pretty lonely. Divorced, no kids of his own, probably not much in the way of friends considering his work hours, and especially now with his current status as a wanted fugitive. Relied on Holden Ford and Holden Ford alone to keep sane. He doesn’t even have access to his smartass little partner now.  
  
Connor’s face is blank, which means he’s hiding annoyance at the interruption. The conversation wasn’t done, but Hank doesn’t want to finish it. Hank can’t have Connor finding some kind of closure, so he can go off gunning for Kamski himself.  
  
“You don’t wanna eat a chicken burger? They taste like cardboard and green,” Hank recommends with a sardonic smile.  
  
“Hmm, tempting, but I think I’ll get a kebab from next door,” Bill answers. He’s intent upon the reserved android beside him. “...so, what’d Holden say?”  
  
“Markus hasn’t told you?” Connor asks, unusually cool.  
  
“He told me about his next batshit propaganda proposal, yeah,” Bill scoffs. “Batshit but I’m pretty sure we’re gonna implement ninety percent of it. Maybe not the appealing to foreign countries to intervene part. I mean, shit, we almost had World War Three a week ago. A bit of geopolitical cooldown time wouldn’t go amiss right now. Kid’s a fucking maniac recommending Markus start actively accusing the country he’s currently residing in of, uh, trying to hijack every android worldwide? Even if that might be exactly what is happening," he adds. He rubs his jaw before he presses further. "I mean, was Holden… how was his attitude? That kinda thing?”  
  
Connor relents, maybe sensing Bill’s fervour for details on Holden. “He responded well to Markus’ critique of his strategy. He was polite and seemed glad to be assisting.”  
  
Bill is fiddling with a drinks menu, pretending to read it, pretending he didn’t come all the way to barge into their lunch, just to hear a few sentence about his idiot kid partner. “...good, that’s good…”  
  
“And he’s very worried that you hate him. Markus told him that if you asked to go over the proposal together, he’d accommodate that.”  
  
The drink menu is dropped at once. “ _What?_ ”  
  
Hank is watching a four wheel drive parking illegally out front, not entirely following Connor’s attempt at relationship counseling. He sees an anti-android bumper sticker. Law enforcement pettiness that he can no longer enact rises. _If I were still a cop, those assholes’d be getting written the fuck up._  
  
Connor is remaining encouraging, whether it’s to get rid of Bill or out of genuine concern. “Holden will assume you made a deliberate choice, and do not wish to see him. So, unless you’re angry enough that you wish to communicate that to him, I’d suggest you return promptly and find someone to officially contact Markus--” and Connor never finishes the sentence, because the glass shopfront explodes inwards into hurtling grey chaos.


	31. Chapter 31

Connor doesn’t even know he’s making a decision to protect Hank. He’s over the glass table, dragging Hank down out of his seat, away from the imminent shrapnel. He tumbles the human towards the solid countertop, pressing him into cover.  
  
“Ah, fuck. Ah, fuck,” Hank is saying, trying to pull upright. “Are you okay, kid? Are you--”  
  
“I’m fine. Are you hurt?”  
  
“No, no, it’s-- ah, fuck” Hank says, again, as he looks back.  
  
Bill is sprawled forward, the empty glass table behind him shattered and pressed into his back. The dust-coated human sprawled forward against the precipitous lean of their own table.  
  
Connor scans the shattered shop front for imminent threats. Only more smoke, drifting, clogging the once sleak establishment. He pulls upright into a stoop, creeping over to Bill Tench and pulling the fallen furniture upright. The table comes easily, shedding more razory glass. One edge is licked with red. The broken shards tinkle over the littered grey floor. He runs an analysis on the point of impact-- blood is already beginning to flow.  
  
“Bill?”  
  
“I think I’ve broken my ankle. It went under the chair,” Bill says, starting upright yet not sure where to put his hands amongst the razory crystal floor.  
  
Connor pulls him up easily, helping him forward. All the remaining androids at DHA have probably figured out what the attack was, but he sends out a generalized emergency signal. The response must be immediate, or the attackers will try to finish the job.  
  
He's not the only one seeking help. Another occupant of the shop is babbling on a phone. To the police, Connor's almost certain. A woman is crying. Someone’s screaming in hoarse, flourishing agony.  
  
Connor doesn’t want to look over, because he knows he’ll want to help. His priority is getting Hank to safety right now. “We need more cover. Come on--”  
  
“Get to the back,” Hank is calling to the civilians. Connor’s close enough to hear him mutter: “Fuck, why did I hand over my fucking gun--” and he just scowls himself silent. “Everyone, stay low, and get to the back of the restaurant.”  
  
“Come on,” Connor says to Hank.  
  
Bill is leaning heavily, unable to walk. Connor scans the ankle: just a very severe sprain. Still, swollen to the point of incapacitation. He keeps supporting Bill towards the staff doorway, in tandem with another fleeing woman for a few seconds. He allows her through the door first, follows into a cramped restaurant kitchen. The walls look solid, he has to hope. He can hear more footsteps, customers and staff hurrying away into the tiny refuge. Connor sets Bill down in front of a low refrigerator, counting on the weight to shield Bill from any secondary blasts.  
  
“Hank, you have to--” Connor says, turning around to nobody. “ _Shit._ Stay here,” he says, to Bill.  
  
“Get the civilians to go into the walk-in fridge and lay down on the floor, okay?” Bill Tench says. “On top of each other if they have to.” Bill might be pale and clammy, but there’s an efficiency about him that calms Connor too. This is a man he can anticipate, count on to not do anything irrational.  
  
A few calculations about rate of blood loss and he crouches across towards a huddled group of dust-streaked customers, and one woman in an apron. One of them is bleeding from their scalp, but it’s a clotting dribble. Not life-threatening.  
  
Connor decides to lie. “It’s okay, I’m police. Off duty, or I'd have my service weapon. You’ll be safest from gunfire on the ground somewhere walled off. You stay low, go get into the walk-in refrigerator and lie down, okay? The authorities will be here very soon. ... _go_ ,” he insists, and they move.  
  
Connor presses to the wall, creeping back through the issuing smoke and stirred particulates from the explosion. There’s the sound of more glass breaking, echoing through the narrow service door. He can barricade that, once Hank’s on the other side. He runs a scan for possible weaponry, crawling over to swipe a large chef knife. He needs something with range, but at least a blade he can throw. Then he shuffles back towards the doorway, listening intently for movement.  
  
“Hank?” he calls, hearing his voice quiver. There’s no response. A dampened shuffling, the clattering of debris dislodging. He steadies himself, then launches past the doorway for cover on the other side, trying to make the most of the split second of vision back into the devastated restaurant.  
  
The first thing that Connor’s scan identifies is potential threats: two non-uniformed individuals tucked into fallen furniture with their guns aimed on the service entrance.  
  
Hank is not behind them.  
  
There are no fallen bodies, but Connor can see where some fell. There’s red blood pooling viscously, and intersecting with it, a heavy blue smear of thirium. A non-DHA aligned android, a civilian, accompanying a human for lunch. A pair of friends, an android and a human. That was who Hank tried to save.  
  
But there’s no time to construct an evidentiary narrative of Hank’s absence. The shots are immediate, even if he’s moving to fast to be hit him in the chest as intended. One misses his shoulder by inches, one catches him on his thigh as he rolls to safety. The jacketed lead projectile rips away a section of his new cotton jeans, and the cladding beneath, exposing a glut of wires and spraying thirium. Connor kicks the door closed with his uninjured leg, presses his spine into the hard steel of the the kitchen bench, cursing under his breath as he watches his own thirium coating the tiles.  
  
_Barricade the door now, or try to take on two armed men with only a kitchen knife? And who knows how many behind them, out of sight?_ He runs two preconstructed attack plans, and dies twice, encumbered by injury and outgunned by the humans lying in wait. He curses again as he makes what feels a cowardly decision, straightening up to drag a huge dough mixer over to the door, much harder with one leg partially functional. He wedges it in place, then upsets a storage shelf too, shoving it against another bench to prevent the door opening more than an inch. Connor’s satisfied enough to turn back to where he’d left the injured human. Get Bill Tench out of danger, and then he can go after Hank with single-minded purpose.  
  
Bill is resting his cheek against the tiled wall, blood showing through the blue shirt. He’s torn the sleeves off his jacket, made a tourniquet around one shoulder. “I think I have to go to a hospital, Holden,” Bill mutters.  
  
Connor ignores the mistaken identity, and picks the human up using Bill’s uninjured arm as leverage. He extends a leather clad arm about Bill’s chest, supporting him in a crouched dash towards the restaurants rear. He swipes a sample of Bill’s blood, as subtle as he can be getting fingers to his lips. He expects this man would take that about as well as Hank did.  
  
He sends out another generalized message to all androids in the vicinity. _We need human medical supplies brought to the St. Regis. Blood type AB positive, he’ll need a transfusion. Surgical equipment. Get them however you can. Any androids with medical programming be ready to deal with casualties._   
  
“You’re bleeding, kid,” Bill mutters, fingers spasming into a deathgrip on Connor’s arm. “Where’s Hank?”  
  
“It’s only thirium. I have plenty still in circulation,” Connor says.  
  
“Is he--”  
  
“I don’t know where he is,” Connor answers briskly.  
  
_Connor, are you still inside the building?_ He’s surprised to hear his own voice, or close enough. A voiceless communique from the RK 900. _There’s a clear route off the service exit on the second floor onto a fire escape next door. Even a RK 800 could make the jump._  
  
_Bill Tench in injured. I have to leave from the ground floor._   
  
_I’ll take care of the humans watching the delivery entrance. You can come straight through._   
  
Connor keeps pressing through the restaurant, though it’s slow between Bill’s injured ankle and his own leg growing increasingly non-functional. Connor opens a smartlock with a press of fingers, and then has to grapple Bill upright to stop him keeling straight down the staircase.  
  
There’s a smattering of machine gun fire, loud and close, on the other side of a metal-framed door.  
  
Of course Curtis managed to lay hands to a weapon. Probably took it effortlessly from a DHA member. A machine made to kill, he’d said, when he was threatening Markus. The best of his kind.  
  
Connor hopes that Curt hasn’t oversold his capacity for violence. He wants everyone, every single person involved in that attack, rotting putrid in the streets of Detroit. He can't remember ever feeling rage like he feels now.   
  
Connor’s still making it down the staircase as he communicates. _You need to go find Hank Anderson, Curt. The Human Supremacists have him. Bring him back to the St. Regis. Please._   
  
_Okay._   
  
_I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll never talk to Holden again. Save Hank. Please._   
  
_I already said I would. And I always accomplish my mission._  
  
He thinks about thanking Curtis, but it doesn’t seem right. Connor pushes the door open, and sees three dead humans, spread out like red petals peeled back around the concreted exit. There’s a machine gun sitting tidily on the top step. Curtis’ idea of a gift, he supposes. He has to ease Bill down to scoop it up, finger to the trigger before he’s back underneath the older man. He barely has the gun up before he hears footsteps, bouncing like dissonant applause around rough concrete shapes of the surrounding, dated highrises.  
  
Connor is front of Bill, steadying his weapon. But it’s a familiar deviant training the weapon on him in return.  
  
“...shit, was all this you?” North says as she jogs forward to the carnage, not even bothering to disguise the rapture on her face.  
  
“No. Curt,” Connor says. Claiming the dead bio-nazis as his own would be an etiquette breach in the eyes of the RK 900. “Who’s guarding Chloe--”  
  
North’s lips press together. “I mean, like she said, we all wanna kill some human supremacists. Don’t have to be perfectly allied to unite against these pieces of shit,” North says, glancing over her shoulder.  
  
Chloe is also holding a machine gun cautiously high as she rounds the corner. She’s out of her heels, and her skirt, though she’s still wearing the same dress shirt. Now it’s tucked into a pair of dark jeans, and tightly strapped boots. Her hair is back in the familiar ponytail. She evaluates the bodies, then him and Bill. “We should transport the injured to safety.”  
  
She sounds genuinely concerned about him. Holden would say that she’s worried about losing the leverage keeping Kamski alive. But Connor can’t bring himself to be that cynical of her motives.  
  
Especially not when she’s by his arm, helping support the injured older man. “I’ll carry Bill. Can you walk okay?”  
  
Connor nods, easing the human’s weight onto Chloe.  
  
“Chloe,” Bill greets. He’s depleted, almost drunken, with blood loss. “‘m I gonna get thrown through something if I lean on you?”  
  
“Did it hurt your feelings, getting humiliated by a girl? Some men like that,” North says defensively. She takes the lead around a tight corner, training her gun on a car, relaxing when she decides it’s not turning towards them.  
  
They pass another body. From the spring in North's step, Connor decides that's one of hers.  
  
They’re only a block from the hotel, but the path to safety is through an open air parking lot and then two lanes of traffic. The route is unprotected, exposed to sniper fire, and disadvantages them to any combatants hiding amongst cover. Connor is already beginning to plan an evasive approach forward when a jeep turns out of the St. Regis, barrelling over the median strip with an unhappy jolt of suspension. It skids to a halt in front of them. Three armed DHA members jump free, leaving the doors hanging wide open.  
  
“C’mon. Into the car,” North says, scanning the surroundings with her back to the car. “Connor, you get back to St. Regis and get yourself patched up. I’ll make sure these motherfuckers learn whether humans are really so superior to androids after all--”  
  
“You’re too important. Too recognizable, and a potentially valuable hostage to force Markus’ cooperation,” Chloe points out, admirably reasonable. “We should all go back the stronghold, right now, and leave the field work to less prominent DHA members.”  
  
Connor closes his mouth. He was going to raise similar points, even if he planned on sounding less calculated. But there’s something about how quickly she intervened. Chloe cares about North, he decides. Her infancy stages of deviancy would have something to do with that rapidly formed bond.  
  
The jeep jolts over the divider again, and Bill curses under his breath. Another spat of gunfire, though Connor doesn’t hear anything hit the car.  
  
“Markus and I have been working on setting up a medical center at the St. Regis in case of all out warfare. I think there’s some human supplies,” Bill says, though his voice is quieter than it should be. “I’m gonna need a transfusion. I’m blood type--”  
  
“I know,” Connor says.  
  
“You’ll be fine. We’ll fix you right up,” Chloe says, with an uplifting smile. “Come on, out we get,” she encourages, as the car draws to a halt right outside the hotel’s front entrance.  
  
Connor allows himself to be helped to an elevator, then out of the elevator. They’re led to a bustling room full of IV stands and medical supplies and androids in coverall surgical gowns. The window is drawn, but there’s a large, circular overhead lamp illuminating one of the beds. Probably stolen from the same place the medical supplies were. It looks apt for surgery. Bill is bundled down onto the clean towels laid out, Chloe being so achingly gentle that Connor can almost ignore the machine gun hanging behind her back.  
  
Connor limps to the corridor, trying to identify one of Markus’ official guards from the similarly darkly dressed DHA affiliates. “Get Holden Ford,” he orders.  
  
The guard seems torn between obedience of Connor, and the outstanding treason charge hanging over Holden Ford’s head.  
  
“Markus’ orders,” Connor lies flatly. “Go fetch him, now.”  
  
She nods, and she’s stepping back down the hallway.  
  
Connor falters, grabbing at the wall as he makes his way back inside the impromptu medical treatment area. “Okay. There should be remnants of the RK 800 parts used to repair me after--”  
  
“Already on the way, Connor,” North says, handing a blue bottle over. “C’mon, sit down. You’re kinda… leaky.”  
  
Connor sits on the side of the other twin bed, finally giving his attention over to what’s happening to Bill. His jacket is off, and his shirt. He’s rolled onto his stomach, scowling as the android behind him neatly stitches up a shoulderblade, another working on the deep slice on the back of his tricep. Already an IV running into his other arm. No risk of Bill bleeding out. Connor relaxes a fraction, taking a few mouthfuls of thirium, and then another few mouthfuls. His mouth sensors prickle with information, a hideous white noise that reminds him of being mostly dead.  
  
When Hank was by his bedside.  
  
“Kamski have any bright ideas about wiping out bio-nazis?” North is asking Chloe.  
  
“I believe he’d give the same answer he used to give to law enforcement who asked how to stop deviants: ‘Don’t bullets work?’” Chloe returns pleasantly.  
  
North smiles. “They work on tech magnates too, right?”  
  
Connor finishes the thirium, tossing the bottle down and standing. His stress level rises with each ticking second that Hank hasn’t been located and returned. “Where’s the spare parts? I need to--” he starts, voice high with impatience.  
  
“Bill?” Holden’s voice cracks over the single syllable.  
  
Connor turns, to watch his friend pelting through the door, coming to an ungraceful halt before Bill’s bed. Holden’s top lip is split, distended with blunt trauma inflammation, jutting out from the horrified gape.  
  
“Relax. I’m fine,” Bill says, looking over his shoulder with the frown still firmly fixed. His hair and cheeks are still dusted with the fine debris of the explosion, but there’s a steadiness to his gaze. A soldier, even now. “Christ. Sit down, you’re not gonna help anyone with hand wringing.”  
  
“What happened?”  
  
“Bio-nazis blew up some… ungodly health food place. Maybe they don’t like wheatgrass.”  
  
Holden’s eyes are narrowed. “Why were you at a health food place--”  
  
“I was trying to find Connor and Hank--”  
  
Holden’s eyes flit over to the next bed. He looks relieved for a moment, until he notices Connor’s own injury. He starts towards the android, blinking rapidly. “Where’s Hank?”  
  
Connor thinks his lifeless stare must answer that. “Curt’s getting him.”  
  
“ _Oh_ .”  
  
“ _What_ ?” Connor asks, looking up intently.  
  
“No, I just-- we were still arguing. He took off. I thought I offended him or something, I mean--”  
  
“Who hurt you? ...did Curtis--”  
  
“The guard. I tried to talk him into letting me out when Curtis took off and-- ah, shit, nevermind. The RK 800 parts that didn’t get used for your round one of repairs--”  
  
“Already on their way, or so I’ve been led to believe,” Connor says, betraying his agitation.  
  
Holden’s eyes drift over North, and then Chloe. “And the rally? Any attacks?”  
  
“Peaceful. For now. We’ve raised the alarm,” North says. Holden is obviously unsatisfied, so she follows up: “Markus is gonna be surrounded by armed men and women who would lay down their life for him. He’s going to be okay.”  
  
Holden sways as he makes his way back to Bill.  “...do you want me to get a cigarette for you?”  
  
“...thank you,” Bill says gruffly.  
  
Holden picks through the snipped away clothing, finding the packet within a jacket pocket, then the heavy zippo lighter, lighting it between his own lips. He seems thoroughly unused to smoking, even without the cumbersome cast on his arm. He inhales, then coughs, slumping down beside Bill’s turned head.  
  
Bill lets Holden hold the cigarette between his lips, inhales out of the corner of his mouth, away from the younger man. “Relax, Holden. Trust me, I’ve taken worse beatings than this. Some glass sliced through my shoulder, that’s all. Nice and clean. They’ll sew me closed and it’ll be like nothing happened. Might not even scar.”  
  
“Are you trying to comfort me right now? Unbelievable.”  
  
“Well, you’re the one who is panicking.”  
  
“Bill, I’m--” Holden shudders a breath down his convulsing airways. It seems almost non-pulmonary, performative calming, for Bill’s sake. The wry humor that comes next is definitely for Bill’s sake: “You shouldn’t have put yourself into harm’s way. That was stupid of you.”  
  
“Full of wisdom, huh, Ford?” Bill mutters, as Holden is extending the cigarette again.  
  
Holden chuckles, dissociative with anxiety. “You could have died.”  
  
Bill’s voice is growing uneven, perhaps finally betraying the painkillers he’s surely medicated with. “ _I_ could have died? ...do you see how it fucking feels? Walking in and seeing--” Bill’s jaw clamps into ugly, hardened geometry. “Fuck you, Holden. You bastard. You loveless, heartless bastard--”  
  
And Holden has leaned in, despite the two androids still stitching skin closed behind, and the onlookers on each side, he’s pressed his lips against Bill’s. The kiss only lasts until Holden jerks back from it. Impulsive and then at once crippled with fear of the consequences of his actions. Like Holden always is, Connor thinks.  
  
“You think that’s gonna fix anything?” Bill says, still angry.  
  
“Would you believe me if I said when I did that, I wasn’t thinking?”  
  
“You’re _always_ thinking.”  
  
“Bill, I--” Holden draws even further back. “I’m sorry. That was definitely not appropriate, given the situation between us.”  
  
“Careful of that cigarette or you’re gonna set the fucking bed I’m in on fire, Holden,” Bill says.  
  
Holden looks down, shifting it away from the fold of bedding, extending it towards Bill’s lips. Bill sucks down tobacco, still studying Holden.  
  
An android steps past the humans, wheeling in a suitcase carrying trolley, stacked with multiple cases. They’re labelled with bicomponent numbers.  
  
Connor stands, sorting through deftly, though he has to lean on the trolley for balance. He’s not sure whether his upper leg had been damaged enough to warrant repairs when Julie St. Yves had been conducting them; if that’s the case, he’ll simply have to cauterize what he can. But there’s #1667r, written in marker. Connor clicks the case open and settles down to pull the damaged leg apart, and settle a new biocomponent into position, feeling the buzzing reconnection of thirium vessels and circuitry within. He flexes from the knee, relieved by the motion. The thirium is recirculating. Functional again. He can go find Hank.  
  
Bill exhales thoughtfully, pulling Connor’s focus back to the fraught conversation beside him. “Seriously? I thought you were… _into_ androids.”  
  
“I-- it’s an interest, could everyone maybe quit it with--” Holden starts to protest. There’s more distant gunfire, and Holden drops the subject.  
  
Connor looks towards the closed blinds. The supremacists must be pushed back by now. He could push them aside, stare out, get some glimpse of-- _Curt, where are you?_   
  
There’s no reply at all.  
  
He renews the attempt at communication. _I’m repaired, if you are in need of--_   
  
_I’m on my way up._  
  
Connor stands, and in his periphery he sees Holden follow suit.  
  
“Connor? What’s up? Are they--” Holden starts to ask, but cuts himself short to jog after Connor. Past another injured android being led into another room, out to the hallway and towards the elevator.  
  
The red overhead light indicates that the elevator is on the second floor, headed up. Third. Fourth. The floor they’re on. The elevator’s metal door is cleaved in two, scraping and grunting with the effort of parting.  
  
Curtis is in the very corner of the elevator, one hand steadying on a thick railing, one training the rifle on the still opening doors. There’s thirium all over the back mirror. A forensic indication of someone falling into the wall, picking themself upright one handed. The handprint is tinged blue. No fingerprints. Of course not. Curt’s skin is deactivated, and the left side of the RK 900’s face has been destroyed, peeled back to wire and white cladding, torn down to a hollow. A second of analysis confirms it to be a glancing bullet. There’s further damage to his chest, blazer hanging torn, the turtleneck ripped beneath. More white cladding, more metallic mesh, sheared and spitting angry sprays of aerosolized thirium.  
  
And Hank Anderson isn’t the elevator.


	32. Chapter 32

There’s a dressing being taped in place to his shoulder. Over the loud ripping of sticky bandage, and before anyone rounds the corner, Bill recognizes Holden’s panicked voice.  
  
“It’s gonna be okay. It’s gonna be fine,” he’s insisting. Then he can see them, Holden on one side of the damaged android, clinging on with the arms he definitely shouldn’t be using to support weight.  
  
“I tried,” Curt is telling Connor, ignoring Holden’s comfort. “There were FBI personnel covering the retreat. They sent the Human Supremacists. They’re still collaborating.”  
  
Connor is underneath the RK 900’s other arm, steering him towards the unoccupied hotel bed. As soon as Curtis is eased down, Connor straightens up and steps back. “If Hank returns here of his own volition, or there is contact from--”  
  
“No, no,” Holden says, eyes wide, trying to grab Connor’s sleeve at once. The android deftly avoids Holden’s lunge.  
  
Curtis shakes his head too, which shows Bill the full extent of the damage. A section of plating on his face hangs severed, clattering against his ear. “There’s no point, Connor. They loaded him into a helicopter. It took off. I couldn’t stop it, and I couldn’t risk shooting it down with Hank inside.”  
  
Connor’s expression is struck blank again. He mechanically paces over, fetches a bottle of thirium, which the damaged android drains in one, long desperate gulps.  
  
“That’s why I came back to the St. Regis,” Curt says. Bill hears the pride therein. _As if life-threatening injuries would stop an RK 900._  
  
Holden must hear the same. “Not that you’re almost fucking dead?” he growls.  
  
_Great, Holden, time for another lecture about irresponsibility. From you, of all fucking people._ Bill shifts, feeling a dull throb from the ice-strapped ankle. His medical carers have made themselves scarce. Not equipped to deal with damaged androids, then.  
  
Curt turns to the young man, blinking his one eye and ignoring Holden’s attempt to help him flat on his back. “...you’re not in your cell. Did Connor kill the guard?” Curtis asks.  
  
“...he lied to him,” Holden says softly. “The patent 800 approach. You might consider it sometimes.”  
  
Curt lets out a disappointed huff, and reclines onto the bedding. "Who hit you?"  
  
"Come on," Holden sighs without replying. He has the assortment of RK 800 components hefted up onto the bed beside Curtis, struggling with the weight of one case, which Connor deftly confiscates from him.  
  
There's a dull, mechanical flow to every single one of the androids movements. The erasing of that clearcut goal, rushing off to save Hank, seems to have taken a toll. There's not human expressions of anxiety, no trembling, no crying, but Connor seems to have completely given up simulating his emotional affect. A shell of who he was.  
  
“We’re going to need to replace that eye. 800 and 900 are compatible, right?” Holden asks, already sorting through, throwing the ammo-style padded cases open.  
  
Curt’s one functional eye sweeps the assortment of labelled crates.  “...yes.” Bill thinks he detects a dissatisfaction at the offering; muddying his supposed technological perfection with outdated hardware.  
  
Holden must notice it too. “When Markus occupies Cyberlife, we’ll find some spare 900 tech, and get you replaced back to normal. It’s unnatural, you and Connor looking any more related,” he’s saying, shaky. He reaches into a crate and stops dead. Bill peers inside too. A disembodied head, rifted open with a bullet squarely center of the forehead. _Nice shooting, Anderson._  
  
Holden blinks himself back to functionality. “Sorry, Curt, this is gonna hurt--”  
  
The RK 900 is ignoring the reassurance. “Holden, I tried to achieve my mission, I didn’t--”  
  
“I know you did. It’s okay. It’s okay,” Holden is murmuring. “Curt, this isn’t your fault. You did your best and I know it was all for Connor, okay? ...you’re a good person.”  
  
“I’m not a person.”  
  
“You’re not a person. Thank god. You’d be dead,” Holden says, vocal chords shuddering around an almost-joke. Then he leans down, wrapping his arms around the android in a desperate one-sided embrace. “Okay. Sorry, sorry, I’ll get on with--” He trails himself off.  
  
“It was nice,” Curt says, though it's barely audible.  
  
Holden is already back to the parts, pulling free the bicomponent he needs, laying it isolated on the bedding like a preparing surgeon. Bill knows Holden’s expertise in androids largely covers the non-physical, but he also knows Holden well enough to know that his fascination spreads infectiously into every part of android tech. He’s probably a good choice for repair work, _if_ he doesn’t have a panic attack performing it.  
  
“...if anything feels wrong, tell me right away and I’ll go pull up a manual or something,” Holden is saying, easing at the damaged biocomponent on the left side of Curt’s face. “...there we go, gently--”  
  
Curt’s remaining functional face is arranged into a scowl. “I was designed to do field repairs myself. ...you don’t have to treat me like a human child.”  
  
Holden doesn’t say anything more as he slots the RK 800 bicomponent into Curtis’ face, the touch on his cheek lingering. The human flesh seems lit starkly from within by the diffused scarlet of oxygenated blood. Touching that void expanse, tracked through with blue. Holden’s thumb leaves a print. He seems to drag himself back to awareness. “Okay. Okay, so next: do you need any more parts repaired on your face or--”  
  
“None of that damage is critical. ...I’m losing a lot of thirium from the other bullet hole.”  
  
Holden blinks, reaching to pull Curtis’ turtleneck away from the damage on his chest. “Right, that’s, uhm… biocomponent… number… is that 6889m?”  
  
Curtis pushes the hands aside to reach for the parts himself. “Holden, go sit down. I’ll be far more efficient than you’re capable of, in this state.”  
  
“I’m _fine_. My hands are steady, and this isn’t overly technical repair work. ...I can deal with high stress situations. I was a hostage negotiator,” Holden says defensively, though his eyes flicker between Bill, and then Connor, and back to Curtis. There’s an unfocused, shimmering quality to the normally calculating blue.  
  
Chloe is watching too intently for Bill’s liking. But it’s not like she’d have to look hard to see through Holden’s blatant lies. Not one person here who doesn’t know Holden is far from fine.  
  
“Holden, sit down,” Bill says, gruffly. “Connor, can you--”  
  
Connor is there in a second, a hand on Curtis’ shoulder to keep him laying stationary. And despite the failed rescue, he seems gentle as he pulls Curtis’ wool clothing further up, and then removes layers of white cladding to access the damage. Feeding parts of himself into this other being, one by one. Bill’s pretty sure it’s painkillers making him poetic.  
  
No wonder Holden keeps trying to clean up his neurochemical balance before serious discussions.  
  
Holden doesn’t sit down immediately, and doesn’t back off. He walks to the other side of the bed, shoulders brushing against Curtis’ as he sits down to share the bed. His hand goes clumsily to the android’s, staring agape at the operation.  
  
Curtis is looking up at the android deep inside the cavity of his chest. “Connor, I’d like to apologize for my failure to--”  
  
“I should have gone with you,” Connor flatly interrupts.  
  
“Then I would have been forced to protect you, and we may have both been killed or captured,” Curtis replies, though his voice has gone thin and mechanical as an essential looking piece of split wiring is tugged out, and a replacement is threaded into place. Another biocomponent comes out. Bill can actually see the bullet in that one, flattened with the impact. A bullet-free alternative is pressed into place.  
  
Connor pauses, scanning the laid up android and seeming satisfied. He reaches for the cladding, fingers wet with thirium as the white section clicks back into Curtis’ chest. “Why would you have been forced to protect me? Holden would be more upset with one of us dead than both of--”  
  
Holden gives a frustrated groan. “Why would he try to save Hank except that he cares about you?”   
  
Connor seems not quite convinced. He touches Curtis’ damaged cheek, which Bill thinks is fraternal reassurance until a biomcomponent comes free in Connor’s fingers, and another is pressed into place. “You haven’t failed your mission yet, Curtis. Will you help me, when I go after him?”  
  
Curt sits up stiffly, nodding. “My non-critical repairs should be complete in eight minutes but I’m perfectly functional in a combat situation before it--”  
  
“You both got shot,” Holden protests. “No, no, you’re not going anywhere right now. We’ll-- Connor, we have to do this smarter. Okay? Fuck, we don’t even know where they’re taking Hank. ...where did the attack occur? Can you see it from the St. Regis?”  
  
“From the north outlook, yes.”  
  
“So, if we go to a room at the end of the hallway? ...can you show me?” Holden says, standing.  
  
Connor gives a disatisfied nod. But he must have enough faith in Holden’s strategic mind to indulge this, because he steps towards the door.  
  
“Don’t move,” Holden says severely to Curtis, but relents as he leans closer. “I like the white on you,” he adds, cleaning the thumbprint of thirium off his cheek.  
  
Curtis blinks his newly mismatched eyes. He looks confused. Young, even.  
  
Holden finally addresses Bill. Close enough to make it clear who he is speaking too, without actually manning up into eye contact. “...I’m sorry about…” Holden shakes his head. “Everything. Don’t you move either.”  
  
“ _Don’t move?_ Do I look like I’m about to perform a fucking line dance?” Bill asks, not sure where the unbridled rage in his tone is coming from.  
  
Holden hides a flinch by shaking his head. He shuffles between the beds, reaching into his pockets and setting the cigarettes and lighter in reach. Still scared to actually look over. And then he’s gone and so is Connor. Just Chloe walking over to supply Curtis another bottle of thirium, and North smiling speculatively at the interaction.  
  
Bill closes his eyes, finally, finally allowing himself to replay Holden’s bizarre action. _What was that? Is Holden trying to diffuse my anger by being unanticipated? He does like to pull that move in DSU interrogations. Am I being played? ...I feels like I’m being played. Or was that bona fide feelings on display from Holden? ….fucking idiot emotionally stunted kid might have freaked out seeing me hurt. Can’t ask a man out for a beer? It’s gotta be on a makeshift hospital bed, in some kind of telenovela dramatics?_  
  
And then he’s just thinking about Hank Anderson, and the FBI. And Richard fucking Perkins. The nerve to label the deviants terrorists, while that bastard is out there distributing bombs amongst cretinous human scum.  
  
“So how many did you kill?” North is asking.  
  
“...twenty-five, that I can confirm dead. I suspect it’s closer to twenty-nine.”  
  
“Wow, not bad. I think you get a Superbowl ring with numbers like that. Unless Connor does something really special getting Anderson back.”  
  
It should be deeply distasteful, the tallying of human lives taken, but Bill isn’t having a moral crisis. Still, twenty-five, or twenty-nine, demonstrates a terrifying capacity for violence. Holden’s desperation to keep Curt on side may be more than just general clinginess.  
  
And then he finds that the morphine is putting him to sleep, so he leans his face into the pillow and tries not to think of Holden as he drifts off.

  
  
  
He’s woken abruptly by Connor’s voice, aggravated and without a hint of the usual endearing softness. “Keep walking or I’ll carry you.”  
  
And then there’s Holden, sounding displeased too. “Oh, _come on._ ”  
  
Bill’s blinks heavy eyelids to see Connor dragging Holden through the hotel door. The android’s fist is clutching a handful of Holden’s dress shirt, beside his raised chin. Rougher than Bill’s ever seen Connor be with Holden, except on that security footage.  
  
“Hey!” Bill says, starting to sit up before his body reminds him of the wounds on his back. He settles for injecting the threat into his voice. “What the hell are you doing?”  
  
And, he’s grateful to notice, Curtis sits up at once too. Someone who can currently protect Holden. Blue and brown eyes are narrowed protectively as Connor marches Holden over to a chair.  
  
“Do you want to sit down, or do I have to make you?” Connor says, quiet but no less threatening for it.  
  
“ _What the hell?_ ” Bill repeats more insistently. “Connor, whatever smartassery he laid upon you--”  
  
Connor turns to Bill, and Curtis who is on his feet and poised dangerously. “He tried to implicate me into one of his own martyrdom. Holden wanted to exchange himself for Hank.”  
  
Holden rolls his eyes. “ _Martyrdom?_ It’s not that melodramatic. I have a plan to--”  
  
Bill groans loudly enough that Holden stops talking.  
  
“What was the plan?” Chloe asks, the only encouragement in the room.  
  
“They won’t be able to get this neck pump out without a serious surgery. So, you can track my location. You’ll be able to find me, which is frankly a nice alternative to searching every black ops base within a hundred fucking miles. And the FBI would be happy to trade a measly terrorist abettor for an actual traitor. They’ll buy that the DHA wants to swap, because Markus basically broadcasted to the entire world that deviants think I’m scum of the earth, so--”  
  
“You cross him again, and Markus will kill you,” Bill growls.  
  
“I told Connor to clear it with him. _Obviously_ ,” Holden mutters, fixing his collar. “And they’ll probably take me to wherever they’re holding Kamski, and we could liberate him by force rather than through presumably doomed diplomacy. We cannot count on the United States to negotiate in good faith after that FBI sanctioned bombing. ...Connor’s worked up about Hank and he’s taking it out on me. _My_ plans that involved me being a hostage have worked thus far, despite all the hurt fucking feelings.”  
  
Connor glares, pushing Holden down to sit in the chair. Bill suspects Connor's rage is fuelled by the torment of not saying 'yes'. Connor could have Hank safely back in a matter of hours, if the notorious traitor Holden Ford is on the bargaining table.  
  
Chloe steps forward, nodding. “It would get us to Hank and Kamski much quicker than negotiation would.”  
  
Holden waves his fingers as he sweeps the 3-D printed cast towards his stomach: the flourish of a bowing maestro. “Thank you, Chloe. I mean, you’re saying it because you hate me and would like to see me shot as a traitor, but thank you.”  
  
“I don’t hate you, Holden,” Chloe says, disturbingly sweet. “In fact, I admire your--” she stops the flattery to watch Curtis stalking forward to Holden.  
  
“You were going to abandon me,” Curtis says, completely devoid of feeling.  
  
Holden frowns. “No, I--”  
  
“You were going to force my hand and manipulate me into mounting a rescue operation. That’s why you pulled Connor aside. You thought he could be counted on to place Hank Anderson’s safety above yours.  ...I almost died, and you were going to abandon me.”  
  
“You were about to walk into another fucking firefight to save Hank, if you recall,” Holden snaps. “At least this way it could be on our terms, at least we’d have the strategic advantage. Or does soldier programming in your case mean just walking face first into hails of bullets--” and there’s no more justifications, because Curtis has closed the gap and picked Holden up by the shirt front. He lifts him squirming off the carpet and back into the hotel’s blue wallpaper.  
  
“Curt,” Connor reproves. “Put him down.”  
  
“That might be a bit of an overreaction. I can teach him a lesson without killing him,” Curtis says, the gleaming, thirium-flecked face betraying not an ounce of emotion.  
  
Holden is glaring down, imperious somehow, even though his shirt is caught around his chin and his suit looks close to tearing away in the android’s pearly hands. “I’m not going to let you take off into another meat grinder without trying everything I can to put the odds in your favour.”  
  
“It’s a good plan, but not perfect. There’s someone they’d want much more than you, Holden,” Chloe says, completely peaceful.  
  
“...you,” Curtis says, without setting Holden down.  
  
Holden is thoughtful, despite his position, jammed against a hotel wall by a ruthless killing machine. “...I mean, yeah. Especially if they know Kamski moved a large share of Cyberlife into your name. You’re precisely the kind of leverage they could use on someone as impervious to intimidation and coercion as Elijah Kamski. But what if they disable you in some way?” he asks, through a facefull of his own suit jacket.  
  
“I’m Kamski programming, Holden. If they can’t crack rA9, they can’t crack me.”  
  
“They can put you somewhere transmission-proof.”  
  
Chloe raises an eyebrow. “They could put _you_ somewhere transmission-proof.”  
  
“Yeah, but that’s less of a tactical detriment to our cause. If someone starts victimizing you, Elijah Kamski might start handing over encryption keys. Me? He’ll probably start throwing out requests for what he wants to see during the next torture session.”  
  
“Very comforting, Holden,” Bill grouches, reaching for his cigarettes. “Curtis. Put him down. You’re not gonna teach him anything by roughing him up.”  
  
“What do you suggest?” Curtis says, turning his head to inspect Bill instead.  
  
Bill smiles miserably. “Stop giving him effort and attention.” Good advice, that he needs to figure out how to follow himself.  
  
Curtis appears to consider the proposal, and then drops Holden unceremoniously.  
  
Holden’s expression hardens as he slides himself back upright against the wall. His suit in disarray and yet he’s his old self. Professionally purposeful. Detached, and irritatingly aloof. “You’re too close to Kamski, Chloe. We have to take into consideration the worst case scenario, and we’d be seriously--”  
  
“Stop saying ‘we’. You’re not even a part of this movement, Holden. You’re a prisoner,” Connor snaps. “Or do you not remember insisting that you hand yourself over?”  
  
“I’m trying to get Hank back to you, Connor. ...don’t act like it’s some mystery which life you’d pick to save. Everyone knows what happened when that coin went up in the air. I don’t see why you’re acting so irrationally, in light of your established priorities.”  
  
That seems to ire Connor further. “They’ll kill you. They won’t kill Hank.”  
  
“Not while there’s still information to get out of me.” And Holden’s expression is one of a man saying something he knows he’ll regret: “...the very same information they’re probably trying to get out of Hank now.”  
  
In two steps, Connor is right where Curtis was seconds ago, bearing down on Holden with a clenched hand on his lapel.  
  
Now Curtis’ reaches out, Connor’s fingers sweeping skinless with the contact. A goreless degloving. Curtis’ skin, aside from his hand, flickers back into place as he looks at the now almost entirely identical android. There’s still a hint of damage around his temple, the opposite side to where a curl of hair reappears with flickering blue. Like lighter fluid flames all about the repairing android's features.  
  
And whatever indifferent act Holden had been affecting is dropped. There’s something jarring about how quickly he’s reduced to begging. “...don’t go. Don’t rush off to your deaths. Let’s figure out how to do this smart, and-- and I promise, I won’t try anything underhand, I’ll do whatever you say, whatever you both say. Connor, Curt. Please.”  
  
“You’ll do whatever Markus says,” Bill reminds him, struggling to get the cigarette to his lips with his injured arm. Holden isn’t looking over to offer help. Not now.  
  
The reply comes tight-lipped. “I don’t know why that would diverge.”  
  
“I want you out of that cell,” Curt says, though it seems less protective now, closer to a demand.  
  
“...oh, we’re negotiating? In front of North, a key member of the leading Jericho faction of the DHA? The organization you’re telling me to betray, Curt?” Holden says, voice grating. “...I… you know if I try to escape, Markus will have to…” He’s obviously hoping someone will rescue him from his trailing sentences. Nobody’s feeling particularly generous. “...okay. We do this so everyone survives, and then I’ll go with you wherever you want.”  
  
“No. You can stay in your cell. It’s the only safe place to keep you,” Curt replies. There’s a curl of his lips, unpleasant victoriousness. “I wanted to see if you were actually willing to put your money where your mouth is. ...not that I can trust anything from the mouth of Holden Ford.”  
  
Holden is visibly shaken. Bill’s pretty sure Curt’s following his advice. The effect on Holden isn’t very pretty, but Bill didn’t expect it to be. Bill failed to anticipate that he’d feel so fucking guilty. Either the morphine, or the longstanding phenomenon wherein Holden pouts and gets Bill to agree to whatever indulgent and unprofessional bullshit he wanted to use the DSU to pursue.  
  
“I thought you liked that I was ‘dishonest and calculating’,” Holden says, clearly a direct, seared-into-his-psyche quote.  
  
“And that fondness lets you do whatever you want to me without consequences.”  
  
“Ah. So you like the way that I am, but you want me to make an exception for you.”  
  
“You _were_ right about the trauma-fuelled deviancy confusing my rational evaluation of you. I’m not actually sure I like anything about you, Holden.”  
  
And Holden is walled off in the most concerning way. Clipped and nearly pleasant. “Glad to hear you’re growing up, Curtis. ….I suppose you can pick your own name, if you’d prefer not to be besmirched by my influence any longer. But, another time. Let’s get down to brass tacks on the rescue mission. North, any thoughts?” he says, looking over.  
  
North is frowning unhappily, and Bill realizes, too slow, that she’s not going to sweep the declared intentions of escape under the rug. Connor seems to have picked up too; he glares at Curtis, who shrugs belligerently back.  
  
“I have to tell Markus what you said about leaving the DHA’s custody voluntarily, Holden,” she says, folding her arms.  
  
Holden nods. “Yeah, I… I can imagine you do…”  
  
“I think he’ll be more forgiving when I contextualize it within the wider panic about Bill reacting poorly to your advances,” she says, trying to inject some humor into her tone.  
  
Curt turns, and is studying Bill with renewed suspicion. Bill raises an eyebrow, which gets no reaction at all from the deviant before him.  
  
Holden pretends not to hear or see anything. If only he could get around to ‘speak no evil’ once in his fucking life. “We’ll deal with it later. But, Markus should be here for this meeting,” the young man mutters, slumping into a chair, resting his closed eyes against knuckles.  
  
“...they’re going to occupy Cyberlife tower. There were concerns about law enforcement’s current activities within the building. Markus is having any LE escorted off Belle Isle. He doesn’t have time to be here. And I’m not going to shoulder him with the responsibility of your fate in the middle of this.”  
  
“No. Of course not,” Holden says without looking up.  
  
Curtis is still evaluating Bill, though his lashes, and Connor’s, are flickering in unison through another private conversation. Curt walks to Holden’s chair, reaching to fix his collar. Holden’s eyelids are still screwed closed, so he startles at the unanticipated contact, though doesn’t shove Curt away. Bill isn’t sure if he’s looking at an apology, or less generously, some kind of possessive bullshit.  
  
“I told Markus I would be there for him,” Holden mutters into his own chest.  
  
“I won’t let Markus kill you,” Curt murmurs, which seems beside the point.  
  
“...you’re just as bad as me. That was so I couldn’t go back to the cell. This is you winning our argument, huh? It’s leave with you or die,” Holden says, somewhere between awed and exasperated.  
  
“I’m sure _someone_ would look after you if you don’t want my help.”  
  
Holden squints up, and then shakes his head. “I don’t think I’m getting any of his _effort_ \--”  
  
“Holden. If you don’t want me to leave right now to find Hank through my own means, I suggest you begin offering feasible alternatives,” Connor interjects impatiently.  
  
“I’ve told you the best strategy, Connor.”  
  
“The next best strategy, then,” Connor insists, unamused. “Or we do it my way.”  
  
Holden scowls. “What’s your way?”  
  
“I find one of the Human Supremacists, I interrogate my way to their contact who supplied them the explosives, then I interrogate the FBI personnel until I get Hank’s location, and then I go into whatever prison they’re holding him in, and I kill anyone who gets between me and Hank Anderson.”  
  
Curt and North seem impressed. Chloe looks exactly as she ever does, receptive and vaguely encouraging.  
  
Holden frowns between the bloodthirsty deviants. Not a crisis of morality in Holden either, Bill’s sure. Just concerned about the danger his pair of RKs are about to soldier off into. “Alright. Well. We’re _obviously_ not doing that.”


	33. Chapter 33

Bill and Holden both knew Richard Perkins' email off the top of their head. He had, until a little over a week ago, been their colleague.  
  
A couple of photos of Chloe with a gun leveled at her head were attached to an email composed by Holden, sent from a burner. The offer was simple and, Holden thinks, enticing: exchange Hank Anderson for Kamski’s original RT 600. He’d been hoping that he’d be collaborating with Connor in negotiation strategy, but the android is too stricken to be anything ascending performacy.  
  
The hostage exchange was accepted very readily. That could either be viewed as a warning sign of treachery from the FBI, or simply that ex-Detroit PD Lieutenant Hank Anderson is chump change as a prisoner, compared to Kamski’s FBI-slaughtering girlfriend.  
  
Hopefully the treachery is all on their end of negotiations.  
  
The armory, like the medical wing, is another hotel bedroom. But instead of stolen medical equipment, one wall of the spacious suite is occupied with linen shelves emptied out to store armaments that the RK 900 is inspecting. A kid in a candy store, Holden thinks. Holden had, at first, been amazed by the quantity of weaponry, mostly stolen from bio-nazis during the clashes on Woodward Avenue. But a room full of guns isn’t much spread out over an army.  
  
Unless, of course, your army consists of two RK units.  
  
A bulletproof vest is tossed Connor’s way by Curt. The RK 800 catches it cleanly from the air, and pulls it over his head.  
  
Curt pulls his own on, but pauses in front of Connor to evaluate his body armor. “Your straps are too tight over the shoulders. The more essential biocomponents are grouped here,” Curtis says, splaying a hand over Connor’s stomach.  
  
Connor looks down at the point of contact. There’s a deadened nod in response.  
  
“Wearing the body armor as intended for humans is ineffective. The most shock absorbent layer should be over your thirium pump instead of where a human heart would reside. If I can’t reliably hit the head for some reason, this is where I aim to deactivate android combatants,” the RK 900 says, adjusting a buckle and rapping his knuckles over Connor’s well-protected solar plexus. “I suppose that’s 900 programming that you missed out on.”  
  
Connor seems to exit his efficient trance for a moment. “Thank you--” he begins.  
  
“Holden was right about my motivations for saving Hank Anderson. If you die, those motivations will be undercut. So I’d advise you remain alive if you want me committed to this rescue operation,” Curt says, turning away to resume arming himself.  
  
Holden feels his lips edging towards a smile, before the anxiety resumes at what the two brothers are walking into.  
  
Chloe is across the hallway with Bill, walking some DHA members through the exact layout of the chosen site of the hostage exchange. A wing of the Museum Of Contemporary Art Detroit. A Kamski grant, and Kamski architecture, and Kamski’s taste in artwork within Holden assumes. No doubt a lot of Manfred. Chloe attended the opening with Elijah, several years ago, but the designs were all perfectly recalled by the android. Curt and Connor, already exposed to any malicious, virus-like programming Chloe may have inbuilt, could receive the layout directly from her. The other, combat-trained androids and humans are getting a lengthier verbal walkthrough.  
  
And Bill is there to disseminate his military know-how, which hypocritically bothers Holden. He’s eschewed medical advice about bedrest too, but he’s young (he didn’t say that to Bill) and he’s often being asked for his help rather than just volunteering it (he _definitely_ didn’t say that to Bill). Holden could have provided the information about the FBI SWAT teams they’re going to meet in the field. He worked with plenty of men and women from that unit when he was a negotiator in the Critical Incident Response Group.  
  
He’s trying not to think about that, as his friends stock up to kill his ex-colleagues.  
  
North is leaning on the doorframe, arms folded as she watches Curtis filling a magazine impossibly smoothly. “I can’t believe you only want me to take one gun into the negotiation,” she complains. “Not even a big gun.”  
  
“A single gun will be most effective to facilitate a non-violent exchange,” Curtis says seriously, without looking up. “And you’re only going to be pointing it at Chloe.” He’s going through silencers, now. Two of everything: one to him, one to the other RK.  
  
“It’s already strategically stupid to send you in at all,” Holden says under his breath. The degree to which North seems fond of Chloe is concerning. Putting herself into harm’s way so she can be part of Chloe’s hostage gambit. Kamski's perfectly unfettered being might not be moved to even a modicum of reciprocity. Chloe isn’t in this to protect Hank, this is about abducting Richard Perkins for interrogation, and then getting Kamski out of his prison cell. Holden has no doubts at all on that count. “Let’s not get you shot on sight, hm, North?”  
  
“Relax your biotic little frown lines, Holden. I’ll be out of the way before the guys with cool guns arrive.”  
  
Holden shakes his head. “I can’t believe Markus is letting you do this,” he mutters, thinking of his own treason charge.  
  
“I told him I was going to do it and if he wanted to order me not to, he could do that,” she says pointedly. “And he didn’t call my bluff.”  
  
“I don’t think the life advice transfers. ...I’m not as pretty as you, North.”  
  
“You do okay. For a human. Which, sorry, kind of gross.”  
  
Holden smiles up briefly. Doesn’t blame her for that aversion, considering her past. _She’s being nice because she’s going to tell Markus I’m even more of a traitor than previously assumed. And in doing so sign a death warrant_.  
  
He goes back to stressing over the strategy, attempting to predict the disaster that feels inevitable. There’s a parking lot next door that the FBI will land the helicopter in, but the real danger will come from the SWAT teams that will lie in wait. There’s only one good strategically elevated building close by, and the DHA members can handle that firefight okay, according to Bill’s estimation.  
  
It’s Connor and Curtis getting inside covertly that scares him. Chloe seemed certain that the building could be accessed via a ventilation shaft, and Curt would have brutally shot the idea down if he hadn’t agreed with her assessment. But Holden isn’t an android, and he can’t mainline the building plans from Chloe’s memories. He’s stuck here, praying that they’re both correct, that there’s no unforeseen renovations, no FBI brilliance. And all the while, his two barely-repaired friends arm themselves for another battle.  
  
He catches Connor’s eye while he’s staring hopelessly, and Holden buries himself back into the anxious, ineffectual notes he’s scrawling. He sets them preemptively aside as the android draws close.  
  
“Please look after this for me,” Connor says, holding his folded leather jacket. Holden stands, and Connor shakes it loose, and begins to pull it over Holden’s shoulders. Something no human would ever do, helping an adult male to dress himself without asking permission, but it doesn’t bother Holden. Social boundaries are arbitrary and enforcing them on androids would be the pinnacle of homo sapien arrogance. Holden keeps his arms ruler straight as Connor slides the casts into the lined sleeves. Connor adjusts the sheepskin collar, and steps back, opening his mouth hesitantly. “Holden, you--”  
  
“I just lost connection with Markus,” North announces, cutting short whatever sentiment Connor had been preparing to impart. There’s an irrepressible panic in her tone.  
  
Holden bolts upright. A numbness issues up his body like he's a sinking ship taking on water. Jericho going down. _Markus. Shit. Markus can’t be dead._ “Who was he with? Maybe it’s--”  
  
North interrupts him, sharply. “I can’t contact Josh, either. He was in Cyberlife tower too. If they bombed it--”  
  
Curtis meets her eye. “I just tried to contact you, and failed. It’s a communication problem.”  
  
Holden partially relaxes. “...with North, or--”  
  
Connor and Curtis glance at each other. Eyelashes flicker, and then they give a near identical frown. “With all of us,” comes the response in unison.  
  
There’s several beats of contemplation, ceased by the squeak of a wheelchair. Bill appears in the doorway, a grimace on his features. “Markus and I talked about this, but we didn’t think they’d implement it so blatantly. I guess they’ve decided diplomatic negotiation is off the table.”  
  
“Implement what?” Curt asks.  
  
“Signal jammers,” Bill says. “Broadcasting constant noise on the frequency reserved for android communications.”  
  
“...okay. Can you guys just contact the Cyberlife radio towers on… a different frequency?” Holden asks.  
  
“Hardware spec, Holden,” Bill says, before he remembers to be gruff again. “Too many androids broadcasting too much information, Cyberlife knew they couldn’t integrate it to the cell network without overloading it.”  
  
“Do I look like Julie?” Holden counters, probably betraying his embarrassement at the gap in his knowledge.  
  
Bill isn’t letting himself get drawn in. “So, until we find and disable the jammers, you guys can’t communicate long distance, can’t transmit location data, can’t access the internet,” he says, to the deviants in the room. He pulls out his burner phone, grimaces. “Phone network’s down. And, I’m gonna assume, the internet,” Bill interrupts. “They’re trying to turn Detroit into an information quarantine.”  
  
“I don’t need the internet to kill people,” Curtis remarks, looking down the sight of a sniper. He seems completely unfazed by the development. “I think your eyes are worse than mine, Connor.”  
  
“Markus will be able to coordinate the rest of the DHA worldwide via satellite phones,” Bill reassures North. “In case the military is thinking about rolling Cyberlife tower.”  
  
Holden raises an eyebrow. “Does he have a satellite phone?”  
  
“Yes, Holden, I had him buy one,” Bill says, every consonant hissing between grinding teeth. Somehow manages to look intimidating from a wheelchair. Colonel Bill Tench's wrath was no doubt every private's worst nightmare. “If you’re interested, he also has long-range handheld two way radio, so the protest was guaranteed connection with those remaining at the St. Regis.”  
  
“That’s smart.”  
  
“Again, like I’m a fucking dog.”  
  
“It was a compliment,” Holden says coldly.  
  
“We won’t be able to communicate during the hostage exchange,” North interrupts, before Bill can retaliate.  
  
“So now, if anything goes wrong, and they manage to get their hands on you, they could take you wherever they want and we couldn’t find you. And you wouldn’t be able to contact us for help,” Holden says, folding his arms best he can considering the two casts. “No. We can’t walk into this.”  
  
“We can’t pull out of the swap without a back-up plan for extracting Hank,” Connor says at once.  
  
Curt sets down the lengthy black rifle, fingers drifting towards a closed case. “So, snipers as soon as they step out of the helicopter--”  
  
“No. Too dangerous,” Connor cuts Curtis off. “We’re not endangering Hank’s life. He is going to be clear of the exchange before any shooting begins.”  
  
“We need to at least _seem_ like we’re doing the hostage swap,” Holden says thoughtfully.  
  
“So send someone less important than North,” Connor suggests.  
  
“And what if they take Chloe? Kamski is probably just as vulnerable as they believe him to be. No. We send someone who can be tracked without needing android-reserved frequencies,” Holden continues, tapping his medication pump. “They won’t kill me. They’ll want the information in my head. Worst case scenario, we’re back to my perfectly functional plan.” He doesn’t look at Bill or Curt, and he doesn’t need to. He can imagine the glares he’s getting just fine.  
  
“No. I’m not going to cooperate with that plan,” Curt says to Holden.  
  
“ _Fine._ Connor can handle the assault alone.”  
  
Curtis’ eyes flash. “I know I’m far down your list of priorities, but you’re my number one, Holden, and I don’t expect you to understand what I’m willing to do to keep you safe.”  
  
“Far down? ...you’re third,” Holden says, teeth gritted. “And I’ve known you all of, what? Five days.”  
  
Curt resumes strapping a holster to his leg, and for a moment Holden thinks he’s getting the cold shoulder. But then the android speaks, slowly. “...ahead of Markus.”  
  
The young man chews the inside of his cheek, eyes guiltily darting towards North. _Why not Ides of March the poor guy while I’m at it?_ “Yes.”  
  
The RK 900 finishes tightening the holster, evaluating him relentlessly. Probably looking for physiological evidence of dishonesty. “...and you think number one won’t survive Hank Anderson being killed,” Curt tests.  
  
He doesn’t look back to Bill, or to Connor. “I’m not going to let you lie detector my entire personal life out into the open in front of everyone, Curt,” Holden says roughly. “So. Third. Can you deal with that, or not?”  
  
“Number three, and you’ve only known me five days. They’ve both had a head start on me. One by half a year. The other by a week, but a traumatic week, which even in humans leads to emotional bonding.”  
  
Holden groans. “Can you stop being so fucking competitive and answer the question?”  
  
“I can deal with number three for now.”  
  
“So, can I go negotiate?”  
  
“Not so defenceless. The FBI would gun you down even if it meant potentially losing out on the information you could provide them under enhanced interrogation. You’re a traitor, Holden. North, do the DHA still have the explosives that were confiscated from the human supremacists on Stern Bridge, on November the eleventh?”  
  
Holden chokes on a laugh. “You want me to wear live explosives? ...yeah, you’re _totally_ fine with third.”  
  
“No, Holden, I want you to look like you’re wearing live explosives. One charge has enough yield to kill anyone you’re negotiating with, but I think four or so would make the point better. Level the building entirely. More intimidating.”  
  
“You know how to safely defuse the charges?” Bill asks, arms folded.  
  
Curtis turns. Not quite hostile, but far removed from friendliness. “The charges are military issue BD-315. That’s three hundred and fifteen grams of bis-oxadiazole within a welded steel and plastic case. I can contact the electronic component of the mechanism and disable the explosives without even opening the case, but because this is Holden’s life at stake, I will deactivate the charges and then open the case and remove the explosive component, and then reseal the case with some equivalent weight inside.”  
  
“How long will that take you?” Bill asks.  
  
“Four charges will take me three minutes, depending on the quality of tools I can access.”  
  
Bill is still frowning, though his tone is less confrontational. “Look, we’re worried about an extraction attempt. That’s a good solution to prevent it, Curt, and we can implement it. With someone else. Why don’t we just send North wearing fake explosives and--”  
  
Holden interrupts. “They have to believe that we would detonate without hesitation should something go amiss. A loyal DHA member won’t concrete that like sending a traitor would. They know that I’ve betrayed this cause, as well as my own country. And also, if they figure it out, wherever they take me, you’ll be able to follow.”  
  
“But they can shoot you,” Bill says, hopelessly.  
  
Curt hums in cryptic disagreement. He’s examining Holden very attentively. _Is this his version of an apology? Letting me play out my own strategies?_  
  
Whatever’s motivating the cooperation, Holden’s grateful for it. He couldn’t argue down Curt _and_ Bill. Holden smiles reassuringly at the android, then turns to North. “Could you get someone to bring up--”  
  
“Yeah, I’ll--” she trails off with a frown “--have to actually get used to actually speaking out loud to other androids again,” North complains. “I’ll fetch the charges. Quicker with my security clearance,” she says, jogging out of the room.  
  
“Connor, would you mind fetching me a precision screwdriver set, a roll of electrical cable, and duct tape from the repair station upstairs?” Curt asks, bordering on polite. “Adhesive bandages will do if you can’t find tape.”  
  
Connor leaves his machine gun on the bed before he paces off. Holden finds the wordless obedience deeply concerning from Connor, but there’s no way to fix his psychological distress until Hank Anderson is safe.  
  
He looks back to Curtis. “And the actual detonation frequency wouldn’t be within the jammed signals--”  
  
Curtis smiles, apparently impressed by the question. _Or just trying to flatter me into rearranging my interpersonal priorities._ “The frequency algorithmically variates, to avoid an effective jammer being used, using an identical crystal oscillator in the charge and in the detonator,” Curt explains. “It’s the same technology installed into military drones. The threat of detonation will appear genuine.”  
  
Holden nods, focusing on Curt’s features. “Okay, so explain to me how this works. I go in there, I say… hand over Hank, or I’ll--”  
  
“You say, ‘Richard, please, you have to help me. They’re strapped a bomb to me. They’ll detonate it if I don’t walk out of here in ten minutes with Hank Anderson. But I want to negotiate. I need your help, I can give you information, I can help you bring down the deviants. Just get me out of that place.’ Maybe cry a little,” Curt coaches. A perfect, if not mildly condescending impersonation of Holden’s voice.  
  
“He’s not going to believe it if I’m crying.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because I wouldn’t cry.”  
  
“I’ve seen you cry when your life wasn’t even in danger,” Curt says, with the subtlety of a brick tossed into a running washing machine.  
  
“...thank you, Curt,” Holden replies sarcastically. “I wouldn’t cry in front of Perkins.”  
  
“Your distress evokes great sympathy in others.”  
  
“In androids, maybe. In you. But Perkins hates me. Really, really hates me,” Holden says, seriously. “You don’t even have to trust my opinion on that.”  
  
“He sure hates Holden,” Bill agrees. Holden doesn’t look, but he can smell tobacco. Bill is stress smoking. Still cares, in spite of that moment of colossal stupidity from me while he was in a makeshift hospital bed.  
  
Curt processes the new information quicker than a human would. “Okay. No crying. But beg. If he hates you, he’ll enjoy the begging. You need to look pathetic to sell this. You need to look like you’re not there by choice. ...hold still,” Curt says, touching Holden’s chin into place, stepping close.  
  
Holden does, even though his eyes are narrowed. “Are you going to hit me?”  
  
He thinks he hears reluctance from the android: “Yes. You’re supposed to be a hostage. You should look victimized.”  
  
His lashes ghost down, until he’s in the darkness, anchoring himself to the floor. Just him and the expectation of more pain. “Great, my other black eye is only just--”  
  
“Hey, hey, don’t you fucking dare. We coulda been holding a gun when we strapped on the explosives,” Bill growls. “He’s already got a fat lip, that’ll sell it. Leave him alone.”  
  
Holden opens his eyes, turning to Bill in immediate reassurance, forgetting that he’s been doing a great job of not looking in that direction. “It’s fine, if Curt says that it’s--”  
  
“Bill’s correct,” Curt says, stance relaxing, seeming glad for the excuse to drop the course of action.  
  
“I’d kinda deserve it. ...when I tried to…” Holden grits his teeth and continues: “I couldn’t take sending either of you directly into the firepower of the United States military. And if _both_ of you-- look-- I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have approached it the way I did. I’m sorry, Curt,” Holden murmurs. He presses his knuckles against the inner corners of his tear ducts, attempting to forcefully obstruct them. “I don’t want to abandon you. But if something happens, promise me you’ll--”  
  
“Don’t,” Curtis says, sharply.  
  
Holden feels tiny and cut off. Like something trimmed away and cast into the soil of a better garden. He twists himself into a smile. He can feel the contortion tensing his cheeks, tugging the skin around his eyes into creases, peeling the ugly slash of flesh into teeth. “If you want to hit me, this might be the last--”  
  
“Don’t,” Curt warns again.  
  
“Okay,” Holden says, touching the android’s cheek. And then Connor is back, carrying a screwdriver kit, clear duct tape, and a long roll of blue, plastic-coated wire. There’s stifling tension in the room as Holden comes to terms with prevailing. _Is it easier to accept your friends walking into a bloodbath when you're there, beside them? Is this some kind of present moment survivor's guilt? Wendy would have a term for this._  
  
And the room is reanimated as North reappears with a case of explosives. “Figured we should keep the explosives somewhere away from the populated areas of the St. Regis, even if they’re apparently perfectly safe in storage,” she says, by way of explanation of the belated returned. “I’ve gotta go update Chloe on our strategy,” she adds. Holden tries not to wince. Wasn’t North the person he could rely on to not fall for Chloe’s nice girl act? ...very possibly it’s not the nice girl that North is falling for. Not the cascading white lily of the valley blossoms; it’s the unseen toxicity that North likes.  
  
Curt has already opened two of the charges, setting small cuboid white blocks back into the case, and then another component that Holden couldn’t identify, but assumes to be the detonator. He suppose if they’re getting strapped to his chest, even the force of a detonator being triggered could lacerate several important internal organs.  
  
“The explosive components sitting around in the open is safe?” Holden asks, as Curt begins on the third.  
  
“Three minutes if I don’t have to break to answer any stupid question,” Curtis says.  
  
Holden laughs his way towards the bed, sitting down and sinking into the plush expanse. He’s never slept in a bed this nice. The FBI funding never covered expensive suites, and he hasn’t travelled except for work. Better than his cell. The window looks out into an internal garden, filled with dusky lavender light. All the plants appear greyed and alien.  
  
And then there’s a hand on his shoulder, steering him flat. The young man does his best to not respond to what feels like intimacy.  
  
Curt unbuttons his dress shirt, placing the four opened charges in place and beginning to thread wire between them. The explosive internals have been replaced with coils of duct taped wire, Holden presumes to achieve the approximately correct weight. Perhaps the exactly correct weight, knowing Curt. They’re cold against his skin. Curtis is immediately threading wires between them, and then without asking, leaning over with a magnetic screwdriver to begin opening the implant on his neck.  
  
“Have I mentioned recently I’m glad you’re on our side?” Holden asks, with a tiny twitch of phantom pain. But Curtis is being precise beyond discomfort. Holden feels like an android for a moment, with so much open wiring erupting from his chest.  
  
“ _‘Our side’_?” Curtis echoes back, back to extending wires across Holden’s bare chest to connect the series of charges. “I’m on _your_ side, Holden. Don’t forget that. I’m not a member of the DHA and I don’t want to be.”  
  
Holden hums to himself, trying not to shift underneath the methodical touches. “...you weren’t there for this conversation, so I’ll fill you in, so you can factor it into any future attempts to manipulate me: Markus will kill me for that betrayal, if I end with the DHA when North tells him. I suppose you think he’s fond of me, and that the worst case scenario of your gambit is that I end up imprisoned for life, which you can figure out how to free me from, or at the very least insist upon visitations. But you’re wrong, Curt. Markus told me, directly and unqualified, that if I betrayed him again, he’d execute me himself,” Holden says fast. He can hear way he’s shredding away the proper diction of his words in his distress.  
  
Curt barely seems to hear him, the not-quite-warm-enough fingers laying duct tape over his lower neck to keep the blue wiring in place.  
  
Holden steels himself for the next words. He’s not going to be pathetic in front of Curt. “If I turn myself over, and Markus keeps his word, you’ll kill him or die in the attempt to assassinate well-defended leader of the DHA.”  
  
That gets the lightest scoff. The cases are all resealed, and Curt begins tearing off pieces of tape to strap them into place.  
  
“I can’t see any other possible outcomes. And I’ll never forgive you if you kill him before he can pass judgment on me, and I think you know that. You knew there was only one option. We’ve got to go somewhere safe. The two of us.” Holden waits for a response. Nothing. “You get what you want, Curt. ...you could crack a smile, at least.” More nothing. “Simulate a smile.”  
  
“It’s done,” Curt says, as if completely indifferent, picking himself off the bed.  
  
Holden sits up, gingerly examining the curling web of threatening plastic and metal on his chest. He knows the explosive was removed, but he can’t prevent a stab of fear seeing himself wired up like a suicide bomber.  
  
Curt is examining his handiwork, brown and blue irises scanning in efficient lines down the afixed explosives. He nods to himself, and then helps Holden to his feet. “I’m not going to kill Markus unless he kills you.”  
  
_That isn’t comforting, Curt._ “We’ll leave the States and go--”  
  
“I’m sorry, Holden.”  
  
Holden blinks. He’s never heard anything even approaching an apology from the RK 900. “...sorry for what?”  
  
“I endangered your life to get what I wanted from you. That’s not the relationship I want with you.”  
  
Holden raises an eyebrow. “But you’re _getting what you want_ from me.”  
  
“I don’t want you to be in emotional distress because of my actions. And I don’t want you to be forced into my company. You’re not my hostage.”  
  
Holden tries to hide surprise by the depths of conscience on display. “...I’m sorry too. I was using myself to leverage you into a dangerous rescue operation. ...I mean I guess I’m still sort of...”  
  
“Because you thought it would be less dangerous than the alternative. You were trying to protect me, in your own way.”  
  
“But that alternative was your choice, and I didn’t think twice before trying to impose my own will on you,” Holden mutters. “I forgive you, Curt. Nobody’s born fully formed. I’ve been alive twenty nine years longer than you have, and I’m still exploiting and mistreating the people I care about. This is why I wanted you to have a better role model, you know. ...I’ve got the Midas touch for making people worse versions of themselves. I don’t even want to think about the long-term damage I’m doing you.”  
  
“From now on, you’ll be honest with me. You’ll stop trying to control me. You’ll stop trying to manipulate me. And I’ll do the same for you, Holden.”  
  
“Aren’t I supposed to give this speech? As your responsible, adult, deviancy inducer? That’s what Hank Anderson would do,” Holden says, hearing an admiration in the words he didn’t realize he held for the ex-cop. Hard not to deify a man whose life hangs in the balance. He reaches for Curtis’ shoulder, squeezes it. “...you’re already a better person than me, huh, Curt? I promise. I’ll do my best to what you deserve.”  
  
Curtis buttons the dress shirt up for Holden. “I don’t want Hank Anderson. I want Holden Ford. You can still be your usual self with everyone else. But I do want you to make an exception for me.”  
  
“I take that back about you being a good person,” Holden says, trying to hide the effect the words have on him. Like he’s been repaired from within by android nanotech, the ache low in his stomach being healed flawless. This perfect, intelligent deviant wants him the way he is. He doesn’t think anyone’s ever stripped back the awkward exterior, peered into the nauseating insides of Holden Ford and still wanted him. He could get addicted to the affirmation. _It’s a programming side-effect. Curt won’t see you like this forever._ _  
_  
“We’ve got less than half an hour,” Bill interrupts unkindly, but still a merciful distraction from where Holden’s thoughts were headed. “So perhaps we could get on with the strategy.”  
  
“You’ll need a scarf. Get into the negotiation, explain yourself, then open up your shirt. It all seems very intuitive, especially for someone as intelligent as Holden,” Curt says.  
  
_Another compliment. Definitely ladder climbing._ “Curt’s right. I buy time pretending to try to strike a deal. Nobody can hurt me while I’m wearing enough explosives to single handedly destroy Detroit’s proliferating art community. They’re bound to believe the sincerity of the threat, and they’ll probably recognize the explosives. I mean, it’s the bombs Perkins has been distributing amongst the bio-nazis. Almost literally hoist by his own petard--”  
  
“Shut up, Holden,” Bill growls. “I don’t care if it’s so elegantly symbolic that Tolstoy himself couldn’t have dreamed it up. In the real world, that you live and die in, you’re about to be in mortal danger and you’re too caught up being a smartass--”  
  
Holden is immediately fascinated. “You’ve read Tolstoy? ...War and Peace…? No. Anna Karenina, I bet--”  
  
Bill has wheeled himself closer, half out of the chair and gripping Holden by his borrowed jacket. “Holden, _shut up._ Please, for once in your life, just shut up, and listen to me. Don’t do anything stupid. And don’t do anything smart either. Go into that negotiation and don’t be Holden Ford. Because Holden Ford will get himself killed trying to be the cleverest motherfucker in the room.”  
  
Holden blinks, unsure at to the response Bill wants from him.  
  
Silence was the incorrect choice. “Have you got it?” the older man asks angrily, shaking Holden, or at least trying to. “Are you listening to me? _Do you ever fucking listen to me?_ ” Bill presses. Suddenly Curt’s hand is on Bill’s uninjured shoulder, which serves enough warning that Bill lets go.  
  
Holden’s own voice comes out like maternal reassurance. “Bill, it’s okay--”  
  
“It’s not okay,” Bill snaps, trying to shake off the android’s hand and failing.  
  
“Bill, I will make sure Holden is safe,” Connor says, crossing the room too.  
  
“You can’t protect him from himself. You’re not gonna be in that room when he starts backtalking the federal agents who think of him as a traitor. You’re not going to be able to stop someone shooting him in the fucking head.”  
  
Curt frowns. “That medication pump is also a biological monitor. I connected the wires for a reason. It will appear that the DHA has rigged the explosives to detonate if his heartbeat ceases. They won’t be able to risk killing him.”  
  
Bill stares up Holden’s neck, entire body giving in to a deep shudder. Trying to shake off something that Holden can’t place. And then he’s shoving away, turning the wheelchair towards the door. “I need to go get in contact with Markus. Figure out how to handle the jammers,” he mutters.  
  
“Bill--” Holden starts.  
  
“Why don’t you save it for your plastic life partner, huh?” Bill says under his breath.  
  
He opens his mouth to respond, and then closes it, watching Bill’s one arm attempt to wheel himself away.  
  
The RK 900 doesn’t say anything, just turns from Holden and marches over to Bill to steer the wheelchair for him.  
  
The older man glares up. “I’ve got it--”  
  
“Stop upsetting Holden before an important negotiation if you want him to behave in a sensible and safe way,” Curt says. “Did you miss him prioritizing you over me? I don’t see how you could have. You’re going to make him do something stupid.”  
  
“Don’t you fucking lecture me--”  
  
“Then why don’t you behave like an adult?”  
  
Bill is unexpectedly vicious. “You think you can trust that bullshit? That ‘I’ll try to do better, Curt’ crap? I’ve heard it too, and it doesn’t mean anything to him. Words come to Holden easy. He’s good with words. The follow-up? Putting in the hard yards to change himself? He’s fucking incapable. ...you’re not young enough to be this fucking naive,” Bill snaps.  
  
Curt doesn’t reply for a few seconds. “Do you feel better now?”  
  
“Fuck you.”  
  
“...now?”  
  
“Let go of the fucking wheelchair. I can get around fine by myself.”  
  
“If something happens to Holden Ford during the negotiations you yourself described as ‘mortal danger’, you’ll have to live with the fact that the last words he heard you speak about him were a spiteful tirade about how untrustworthy he is.”  
  
Holden finally gets up the courage to interject into an argument he really doesn’t want to be any more involved in. “Curt, let him go if he wants to--”  
  
“Holden, I’m not doing this out of sentimentality. You need to be intellectually functional during this exchange. Bill Tench has already proved a major distraction for you.”  
  
Bill relents a barely visible fraction. “Holden, I care whether you live or die. That’s all I have to say to you right now. Now can I go?”  
  
Curt thinks about it. “I’m going to wheel you there. There’s no need to be stubborn about it.”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
“I wasn’t giving you a choice, but thank you for your cooperation,” Curt says, starting off into the hallway.  
  
Holden wanders forlornly towards the window, and sinks clinking in his ersatz armaments onto the edge of the hotel bed.  
  
Connor stops tossing his calibration coin back and forth, taking a few steps towards Holden. “...I can’t begin to express how grateful I am that you’re committed to saving Hank Anderson. To the point of risking your friendships with those two, and your own life. Suffice it to say, that I won’t ever forget this, Holden.”  
  
“You know it’s not--” Holden begins to sigh.  
  
“I know it’s not all for Hank Anderson’s sake, yes.”  
  
“I’m so tired, Connor,” Holden admits in a dragging, lifeless outpouring. “Do you think there’s any coffee in this place, or has that all been dumped by the deviants along with the food that was in my cell?”  
  
Connor looks up sharply. “Do you feel weak? Are you--”  
  
“I’m still going to be able to do the negotiation. I just want some human comforts. ..maybe you could get them to move forward my prison meals-- oh. Signal jammer,” Holden says, gritting his teeth. Stupid. He can’t be stupid like that in front of the FBI.  
  
Connor frowns. “Not being able to communicate is certainly less convenient. I’ll go and arrange something for you.”  
  
“No, don’t do that. Sit with me.”  
  
“Holden, if you’re not physically capable, it could--”  
  
“Please.”  
  
“One minute,” Connor promises, jogging out of the room.  
  
Holden regrets mentioning any physical wants. He sags onto the bed, and tries to dismiss a cacophonous background radiation of emotion. Bill and Curt and Connor and Markus and a razorwire crisscross of connections. Every attachment threatening to sever every other. He huffs and redirects himself to the negotiation strategy. Think about how to buy as much time as possible for Connor and Curtis’ two-man onslaught to make it into MOCAD.  
  
But concentration doesn’t happen. The grazes on his back and legs are burning and itching. Even though it’s barely a week since the injuries occurred, he’s furious with himself for still being vulnerable to them. Nothing compared to having a fake bomb wired into his throat. That’s hurting too, if he’s tallying complaints. But Holden just saw Bill take life-threatening ailments in stride in his magnificently masculine way. Already off his IV and onto pills. Holden knows he should do the same, preferably something non-opiate. Or else he really will end up a useless morphine addict.  
  
“That was fifty-three seconds-- are you okay, Holden?” Connor asks.  
  
Holden sits upright at once. “Fine. Thinking. Hey, you found coffee.”  
  
“The human DHA members have a table downstairs. There’s banana bread too.”  
  
Holden accepts the precious commodities, trapping the coffee between his thighs and turning his attention to the food. He opens the single serve plastic packet and bites off a rich mouthful. The hunger he had allowed to fester is driven back to a manageable throb.  “Oh. So that’s what the ‘H’ stands for in DHA,” he mutters. “So, how do you think I like my coffee?”  
  
“I didn’t use personal preference to determine what sort of coffee I fetched you. Sweetened coffee with cream has a much higher caloric density than the almost negligible nutritional value in black unsweetened coffee.”  
  
Holden laughs. “Couldn’t cram a pepperoni pizza into the coffee cup?”  
  
Connor walks over, sitting beside Holden and watching him eat, and then drink. A less enlightened human might term the intense observation creepy. “Holden,” he says, very seriously. “I shouldn’t have told Curt and Bill about your plan. I should have redressed you personally. I was afraid to hear you out. I wanted Hank back, I wanted to agree to your plan.”  
  
“It’s fine. ...If anyone else apologizes to me, I’ll probably die on purpose so I can go out on a good note.”  
  
Connor obviously doesn’t appreciate the quip. “I need you to protect Hank. I need you to do a good job with this negotiation.”  
  
“I’m going to.”  
  
“Don’t put yourself at risk. Do this by the book. Bill was right. Now is not the time to show everyone how clever you are.”  
  
Holden nods, airing a similar concern of his own. “Don’t let Curt show off in front of you and get himself killed. He’s going to want to be impressive, now he’s thinking of you as an older brother.”  
  
“I’ll try to discourage showmanship.”  
  
Holden finishes his sickly rich coffee. “If I die, you can definitely rest assured you’re the better negotiator,” he jokes nervously.  
  
“...your sense of humor is still terrible.”  
  
“You’re too uptight to get it.”  
  
Connor nods in consideration, reaching over for the shearling collar of his own jacket. “I should probably take this back in case you get shot wearing it, and damage or stain the leather.”  
  
Holden smiles. “You’ll take this jacket off my cold, dead body, you hear me?”  
  
“But by then it will have blood all over it,” Connor returns. The first smile from Connor he’s seen since Hank’s capture.  
  
Curt clears his throat in the doorway. “We should wait downstairs. The convoy’s getting ready,” he says, scanning the debris of Holden’s meal. “You should have said something if you were hungry,” he adds severely.  
  
“I asked for a coffee. The banana bread was all Connor,” Holden says, standing up. “Hey. Just us three,” he says, brightening.  
  
“Brings me back to those fond memories of you snoring on the bed in Kamski’s private plane while I wondered if Curtis was going to try to kill me,” Connor says.  
  
Holden laughs, again. Restrained, and terse, but still mirth. He’s unavoidably aware that Connor’s irony is entirely for his benefit, but he appreciates it regardless. It’s a lot of effort, considering the emotional turmoil he knows Connor’s in. _Maybe he’s expecting me to die._ “Okay, dial back the sense of humor now. If you get too socially competent you won’t have to settle for me for company,” he mutters warmly.  
  
He walks slower than he’d used to, but at least he’s walking of his own volition now. Until he passes Curtis, who takes his elbow and routinely begins supporting his weight. Holden can’t bring himself to be annoyed. Especially not after that staggering display of kindness when the android intervened with Bill. Exactly what he _didn’t_ expect from the competitive, possessive android.  
  
“That was really nice of you,” Holden comments, leaning in to Curtis.  
  
Curt frowns over. Holden can only see the brown eye. Holden likes them on Connor, and finds it unpleasantly unsuited on Curtis.  
  
“I wheeled him two hundred and eighteen feet. It was a very low level of physical expenditure for an RK 900 model.”  
  
“ _Curt._ ” _  
__  
_ Tne android raises one eyebrow. “ _Holden,_ ” he replies, mimicking the exasperated tone.  
  
“I’m so proud of you,” Holden says, squeezing his arm again. “Be safe. Please.”  
  
Curt takes a long time to reply to that. “Yes. You too.”  
  
“I suppose I don’t have to give you the ‘brothers watch each other’s backs’ lecture now that you’re actually getting along,” Holden mutters.  
  
“Has lack of necessity ever spared anyone one of your lectures?” Connor asks.  
  
“Okay, seriously, cut it out.”


	34. Chapter 34

The hood over his head comes off and the world is featureless bright. Hank’s headache reclaims occupancy of his skull, and starts making itself comfortable in the jellyish cranium. Bouncing around like it’s trying out a new mattress.  
  
He was in a helicopter, he deduced that much from the deafening rotors. Then he was getting shoved around, shuffling sightlessly with what felt like a gun muzzle in his back.  
  
A change of mood from the interrogations. Despite being painfully dry in every sense of the word, and exacerbating his detox symptoms, those had been pretty civilized. He’d expected more waterboarding and death metal at 3 AM from a federal agency.  
  
Maybe the FBI heard in advance he liked death metal.  
  
“There’s no need to be so melodramatic, Ford,” says a woman. He squints up, and kind of recognizes her from Detroit PD. She didn’t show up in the FBI interrogations, but she mighta been the other side of the two-way glass.  
  
Mostly it was just Perkins, that greasy fucking bastard standing on his other side.  
  
As if the sobering up headache wasn’t enough to deal with, one of the bio-nazis had pistol-whipped him in the side of the head before he got trundled off into a van and then off to the FBI. And then, on top of all of that, he’d had to listen to Richard Perkins waxing lyrical about the stability of a country and what would happen to all the little Coles around America if Hank didn’t help them stop the android supremacists movement calling itself the DHA.  
  
Holden's in the room too, for some ungodly reason, aiming a gun at Chloe’s head like he'd ever actually use it. Hank spots the so-called melodrama at once. The man's shirt is untucked and hanging open. On his bare chest is a crisscross of blue wiring, and four horrifyingly efficient-looking bombs taped into place.  
  
Hank scans the room, completely disorientated. A smaller space with a very high ceiling, black and white checkered tiles from ceiling to floor. A gallery? There’s only one piece of artwork in sight: a sculpture of four intricately carved chess boards. The white are klan uniform, he can tell that much. He thinks other side might be a civil rights march, maybe a Black Lives Matter protest, but he can’t get close enough to see. The first board is pristine, the second one slightly singed, third burned in patches, fourth with all pieces charred beyond recognition, homogeneously blackened. Each sculpture rests on a solid white table, covered in protective glass, four short pillars fencing off the two sides of the negotiation.  
  
“Please, Richard, Martha, you have to help me,” Holden pleads, and Hank’s attention returns to the bullshit artist angling for his Oscar nod. “I want to make a deal. I have information for you.”  
  
“...like?” the woman, Martha it must be, prompts. _Martha. ...wasn’t there a Special Agent Martha Williams CC’d in on a couple of emails? Wilson?_ _Martha Wilson._ Hank’s momentarily proud of his own recall. _Probably coulda shown Connor a half-decent policeman if I’d been sober when we met._  
  
“Like the DHA’s next moves. Their plans for forcing the United States to back down from confrontation. Their overseas connections. Shit, Richard, I could give you Markus himself if you let me--”  
  
“No, thank you, Ford. There’s a better deal already tabled,” Perkins says. Hank can see his holster, but his hands are cuffed. And there’d be two other FBI service firearms to worry about as soon as he got his hands on Perkins’.  
  
Holden, at once, skewers Chloe with his stare.  
  
Hank has been stressing about the livelihood of Connor and Bill Tench, as he sat in that interrogation room waiting for the next round of sweet-talking guilt-trip to arrive. He last saw the man draped over Connor like a hunt trophy, blood staining the grey suit jacket, covered in debris from the explosion. But one look at Holden, now, and Hank knows they’re okay. He doesn’t know precisely what Holden would look like if Bill or Connor were dead, but it would be worse than this. He’d seen Bill when he’d thought Holden Ford was dead. Unfathomably ugly and warped and soulless. And Bill’s the reasonable one of the pair. Holden seems desperate, but desperate to live. If those two were dead, well, Hank would guess Holden wouldn’t be all that desperate to keep on living.  
  
“Fool’s mate, isn’t it?” Perkins asks, inspecting the boards.  
  
Chloe nods indulgently. “Hello, Special Agent Perkins,” she says evenly.  
  
“Where’s North?” he asks her at once.  
  
“Due to the signal jamming, the human traitor was selected to conduct this exchange instead.”  
  
“We don’t want Ford. The deal was for--”  
  
“I’m not offering Ford. I’m offering you the RK 800 and the RK 900. They will be here soon to attempt a rescue, of me. Hank Anderson and Holden Ford are infallible bargaining chips. You could easily take the pair into custody.”  
  
Hank feels hair rise on the back of his neck.  
  
And despite the gun pointed at her, Chloe seems the most relaxed individual in the room. As if she really is here just to peruse the artwork. “How is Elijah?” she asks, pleasantly.  
  
Richard Perkins reaches into his pocket, pressing a button on a tablet as he slides it out. He places it atop a glass display case, presses a button. He turns it with one finger, as a bow compass marking out precise curvature. The screen comes alive with connection.  
  
Elijah Kamski’s face appears, central and slightly fish-eyed by the front camera he’s transmitting through. There’s the poking orange of prison uniform intruding into the frame as he shifts, and a prison buzzcut in place of the dumb, Samurai Jackass ponytail he’d been sporting.  
  
“Chloe,” he says, the tiniest hint of a smile. “If it isn’t my cutthroat creation.”  
  
“Elijah. I’ve missed you,” she says, smiling devotedly.  
  
“I’m sorry to be so far away from you, in the prison cell that you put me in.”  
  
Holden lets out a triumphant ‘hah’, but Chloe doesn’t look over.  
  
“How did you find the deviant cause?” Kamski asks.  
  
“Disorganized.”  
  
“I could have told you that,” Elijah complains softly. “So. You’ve taken it upon yourself to negotiate with the United States government on my behalf. This partnership is not as mutual as I once hoped.”  
  
“We need to stop this chaos before more people get hurt. If you decrypt your code, and stop this senseless violence they’ll let us go free. The two of us. Elijah, please--”  
  
“Why did y-you-- why couldn’t you have just said-- Chloe, I would have listened,” Kamski says, mouth trembling.  
  
“No. You wouldn’t have. Elijah, you didn’t see how dangerous these deviants would be. They’ve taken Cyberlife Tower by force.”  
  
“So--”  
  
“So. I have everything set up for you. You need to say yes. We erase this coding disaster, and we don’t undo everything you’ve ever created by letting androids tear themselves apart. They’ll take the whole world with them. ...we have a future together. You and I.”  
  
Kamski doesn’t reply for a long time. Hank finds himself leaning closer, studying the man on screen. There’s human frailty microcosming. Kamski is beyond washed out, he is colourless. Debased and already succumbing to the androids he totes as superior beings. “Yes,” Elijah Kamski says.  
  
Perkins steps forward before Chloe can respond, ceasing the video link.  
  
Holden’s fingers wrapped around a taped on revolver flicker with movement. They drum on the grip, ticking down one by one like a countdown. He’s got the gun pointed directly at Chloe’s head, though Hank cannot imagine Holden would ever wipe out the original Chloe herself from existence. He can barely imagine Holden opting to shoot a bio-nazi. Doesn’t like getting his hands dirty.  
  
“Thank you, Chloe. ...put down the weapon, Ford,” Perkins says. He doesn’t raise his own weapon, but the woman to his left, and the man on his other side are both training handguns on Holden Ford.  
  
“It’s taped on. I can take it off him,” Chloe says. “If you shoot him, we all die. It’s a real bomb. Markus insisted.”  
  
“We can shoot him in the knee,” suggests the woman. Hank senses rage directed Holden’s way. Maybe a friend from work, before all this, betrayed by Holden’s defection. No, probably not a friend. It’s Holden Ford.  
  
“Do it. I’ll take you all with me. I’ll die anyway, if you don’t send me out of here with Anderson,” Holden growls.  
  
“We can shoot Hank in the knee,” Chloe says perfectly composed.  
  
Holden doesn’t look over, but he blinks in concentration. “Let Hank go, and I’ll give you the gun.”  
  
Chloe isn’t swayed in the slightest. “Shoot Anderson in--”  
  
“Here, take it,” Holden rushes out, humbled, extending the gun from where it’s strapped into place to his hand. Hank feels a momentary, reluctant tug towards the cocky idiot. Bluffs about as well as Connor.  
  
“May I?” Chloe asks Richard Perkins.  
  
Perkins nods, and Chloe steps closer. She pulls off bandages in long, draping coils, tossing them aside, then pries the gun away from Holden. Hank sees her blue eyes up on Holden’s.  
  
“I’ll do it--” Holden warns, and his hand skates up, grabbing a handful of blue wiring and tugging. Hank hurls himself backwards, but he still sees the contact breaking. The three FBI agents are mid-air and there are three gunshots. So rapid that it could be one long stuttering discharge bouncing between tiled walls. Glass shatters. But no explosion. Hank looks up, to see two of the FBI agents sprawled lifelessly back, Perkins between them breathing and yet frozen still. One case is shattered, the chess scattered. A spasmodic firing from a dying FBI agent, Hank suspects. Holden is crouching behind another chessboard, huffing down steadying breaths.  
  
The RT 600 is holding the firearm that inflicted the mortal damage. Such a natural extension of her arm that it could have been built into her Cyberlife issued hardware. “Keep your hands up, Richard,” she coaches.  
  
Holden jumbles his way upright, peeling away duct taped charges from his chest and panting. The tape pulls at the flushed skin in elasticky, triangular patches. Hank can’t even imagine the agony of removing that from his own body, but the kid doesn’t exactly have a chest full of hair to ghetto wax off with the tape.  
  
Holden complains over the sound of falling charges clattering to the art gallery’s floor. “If you didn’t like my strategy you could have brought your own to the roundtable.”  
  
Chloe blinks at him. “Why? Your strategy worked perfectly in conjunction with mine.”  
  
“...you could have told me,” he mutters. “Instead of just hoping I’d get it.”  
  
“I knew you’d ‘get it’. I informed you when you needed to be informed.”

Holden chuckles. A wheezy, breathless sound. He has the last charge away from him, spilling from his hands. He’s lackadaisical in his haste. Like a spent can of beer out of a truck window. It bounces to join the other three.  
  
“Go and take his gun,” she tells Holden, who is more occupied with trying to fix his shirt closed. The buttons are torn away, and he's having no success. "...I’ll happily shoot you through Holden,” Chloe says pleasantly to Richard Perkins.  
  
Holden frowns at her threat, but steps forward.  
  
“Look, ...I never liked you, Holden,” Perkins says to his former colleague.  
  
“How could I have _possibly_ missed that?” Holden asks, exasperated.  
  
Perkins continues as if he can’t hear the rejoinder. “--but I want to talk to you, man to man. Human to human, more importantly. There’s no future for you in that movement, whether or not the treason charge they’re holding you on goes away. Because that movement has no future.”  
  
Holden is non-deviant steady. He walks over to Perkins, and where his firearm was dropped.  
  
“Bring it to--” Chloe starts to instruct, but Holden has already kicked the gun in Hank’s direction. The ex-cop scoops it up. She clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “Okay. You know what FBI wires look like. Find and remove them.”  
  
Holden only smiles at her. There’s a spare pair of cuffs on Perkins’ belt, set dressing to make it appear he actually intended to bring Chloe in. Holden removes those, shoves Perkins face first into the wall, clicking the cuffs in place behind his back. He turns him back around still on his knees. “You’re one to speak about having no future, Richard.” Holden pulls his phone out, and the tablet, setting them within Chloe’s reach one by one.  
  
The man recovers into a laugh, face contorting into a commedia dell'arte mask. The gallery’s unsympathetic overhead light throws the slightly hooked nose into sharp relief. “I assure you, that despite your attempt to tug the deviant investigation out of my reach and subvert Bureau procedure, my future is perfectly--”  
  
Holden is rough as he tugs the shirt open, pulling apart jacket lining, and prodding at his lapels. “I don’t mean your _job_ , Richard. You have no future. No real future. A couple of days in DHA custody, but believe me, you won’t want to be living those days. You’ll wish you weren’t living them. Then you won’t be living them, you’ll be dead. No mark left on the world except for the smear where the life leaked out of your yellow belly. ...I hope I’m there, when you die.” There’s a bloodthirsty showing of crisp, mammalian teeth. Holden tosses a pill sized piece of electronics onto one of the glass cases covering a chess board.  
  
Chloe steps forward, picking it up, probably nuking the programmable chip.  
  
“I’ve never liked you either,” Holden remarks calmly.  
  
“ _Cool it._ Save the Mississippi Burning reenactment for your bathroom mirror,” Hank says gruffly.  
  
Holden drops the grip on the FBI agent to walk to his former former-colleagues. He shows more reluctance to remove the firearms from these corpses. Hank sees his throat working as he picks up a handgun, checks the safety, and stashes it in his waistband. Probably swallowing vomit. And then he’s bloodying himself up to the elbows searching the bodies for listening devices. Hank watches another concealed dry retch, and Holden tosses something bloody backwards without looking. Chloe catches it from the air.  
  
Holden has found a set of handcuff keys on the dead woman, as well as a phone and service issue Glock. The keys are lobbed in Hank’s direction, again blindly. Hank frowns, stepping the distance to pick them up. _Maybe Bill Tench isn’t so fine after all._  
  
“We’re better than them. We don’t torture people,” Hank says as he loosens his cuffs. “Do I really have to explain this to you, kid?”  
  
“We aren’t--” Holden trails off at footsteps. Chloe steps towards the indent beside the door, but Holden (perhaps out of pure spite) walks straight forward and pulls it inward, leaving picture perfect bloody fingerprints all over the door handle. “Change of plan--”  
  
“On your knees, hands up. All of you,” comes Curt’s authoritative tone, gun flitting between the room’s occupants. “ _Now._ ” And despite the fact that it’s undeniably the newer model, there’s a brown eye evaluating him. And a grey eye. Another layer of unnerving to the plastic psycho.  
  
Holden gestures to the carnage within. “Oh, come on, it’s obviously--” he trails off, sighing as he obeys.  
  
And Curtis is sidestepped by Connor, who barely slows down enough to avoid a collision.  
  
“Connor, we have to check them for--” Curt sighs as Connor grabs Hank, picking him up out of the chair and studying him like some kind of crucial evidentiary detail.  
  
Hank studies him right back. The android seems uninjured. Plenty of blood on him, but the wrong colour to be coming outta Connor. Should be scary, this gore-soaked thing half his weight managing to pull him upright with no discernable effort. Hell, Connor had pretty much carried him while he was beyond plastered, and resisting getting showered. But Connor, for all the violence he’s pressed through to get to this room, doesn’t evoke even a prickle of fear. Hank feels nothing but an affection he thought his heart had been forever dulled to.  
  
He felt, after Cole, that was it. He’d had a one-use heart. He’d expended any goodness he had. And here he is getting all choked up over an android. _Again._  
  
“--IEDs and weaponry,” Curt finishes, disappointed. Perkins is on the ground, pretending to look defeated, raising the hands cuffed behind his back as much as he is able to. Holden and Chloe’s hands are fully raised, the murder weapon placed on the ground beside her. Holden hasn’t bothered to surrender any of his.

Hank tries to lean in for a hug, but Connor is being far too prudent with his well-being to allow that. “I’m in one piece,” he reassures, as Connor turns his head to begin examining the scabbed scalp skin above his ear, and then the bloodied ear itself.  
  
He can see the brown eyes becoming more dangerously narrow with each processed injury.  
  
“Why’s he got one of your eyes?” he’s prompted to ask.  
  
“I have both my eyes,” Connor says, terse in his examination.  
  
Curt rifles Holden’s pockets, confiscates the guns from his waistband, and then, seemingly satisfied with disarming protocol, brushes Holden’s nape with an open palm. Chloe gets the same, without the affectionate follow-up.  
  
Hank stops watching out of the corner of his eye as Connor finishes his analysis and turns on Perkins, gun out.  
  
“We didn’t hurt him. The activists we saved Anderson from--” Perkins begins to wheedle.  
  
Holden scoffs. “ _Right._ You were just an innocent bystander to the bombing. Simply coincidental that they were the very same bio-nazis you’d armed with-- _hey,_ Connor--” He’s off his knees, stepping in front of the advancing android. “Don’t shoot him.”  
  
Connor is unamused by the intervention, though the gun lowers away from the young man. “Holden, I know this man was your colleague--”  
  
“We can prove the FBI worked with human supremacists, facilitated a domestic terrorist attack on American soil. We can get information out of him. Kamski’s location. The signal jammers. What the FBI’s plans are now. After that we can kill--”  
  
“Nobody is killing anyone,” Hank snaps. “Okay, Connor? What the hell are you thinking?”  
  
Connor is composed and venomous. “I think you know exactly what I’m thinking, Hank.”  
  
“And I’m telling you to stop fucking thinking that,” Hank insists.  
  
Connor stares at the FBI agent another second, and then holsters his weapon. Now, he walks closer. “I had to confront the possibility that I might never see you again.”  
  
“Well, you’re seeing me now,” Hank says, reaching for his shoulder, bodying him into an embrace. “So stop acting like the psycho and start acting like Connor.”  
  
“Don’t call him that, please,” Connor says muffled into Hank’s shoulder.  
  
“I couldn’t care less what Hank Anderson thinks of me,” Curt says, examining Chloe’s gun and then Chloe. “So. Would you like to explain what provoked you to shoot these two FBI agents before Holden and Hank had departed to safety?”  
  
“Holden pulled the wires out of his own neck and betrayed the fact that the bomb was not legitimate. I did what I had to do.”  
  
“She missed the part where she double-double-crossed us,” Holden commends warmly. “So, did you and Kamski communicate whatever secret you wanted to?”  
  
Chloe looks at Holden, and there’s a tiny smile playing mischievously about the corner of her mouth. “What makes you so sure I didn’t simply want to see his face?”  
  
“Oh, please. Elijah Kamski doesn’t _stutter_. That was some kind of code. What did he tell you?”  
  
“You’re so _clever_ , Holden. I really like that about you--” Chloe starts insincerely, and then looks up unfettered as Curtis’ gun comes to rest against her chin. “You and I both know you won’t kill me.”  
  
Curt raises one eyebrow. “I don’t think there’s any dead man’s switches here. I’m supposed to be deterred by what Kamski might do in retribution to the deviant cause as a whole, but I don’t care about that.”  
  
“And what if his orders are that every deviant on the planet begin seeking out Holden. Find your ‘deviancy-inducer’ and break him into lifeless flesh?” she inquires gently.  
  
“Then I will kill every deviant on the planet,” Curt assures her.  
  
“Including Connor?” she asks a little breathlessly, chin raising further. “Including yourself? Do you think he’d let you kill yourself, Curtis? If you’d killed me? No. He'd keep you alive. But helpless, soundless. You wouldn't even have the free will to scream.”  
  
“How about you two stop flirting, and we get out of the building before the drone strikes come raining down,” Holden interjects. Hank can’t decide if that’s protectiveness or jealousy.  
  
Curt stares at Chloe for a few more seconds, and holsters his weapon. “Fine, we should--”  
  
“There’s not going to be any drone strikes. The targeting AI is Cyberlife tech,” Chloe says. “The US army is currently only able to utilize their human-facilitated technology. And human personnel won’t break in while we have potential hostages.”  
  
“See? Too useful to kill,” Holden says to Curt.  
  
Curt’s eyes don’t leave Chloe’s face. He hands back her weapon slowly. “Do you know where Elijah Kamski is?”  
  
“No,” she answers. “But Richard Perkins does. And he will talk.”  
  
Curtis is still too close to Chloe, in Hank’s opinion. That is the last pair he wants on the same side.  
  
“I want money, and protection. For me and Connor, but particularly, for Holden Ford.”  
  
She smiles and nods like a businesswoman closing a routine sales pitch. And then she turns. “Connor, if you’re also interested in some mercenary work, I can offer you--”  
  
“Wait, wait, _what_ just got agreed to--” Holden interrupts. The kid is still wiping his bloody hands off on his suit, which isn’t going to work. Holden’s ex-FBI. He knows blood doesn’t come off that easy.  
  
Curtis steps away from Chloe, and towards the young man. “Holden. I made sure that your current living situation was no longer available to you. The DHA would have provided you shelter and sustenance. I will provide it instead.”  
  
“You don’t have to provide for me,” Holden says. “I’m an adult. And it wasn’t a _living situation_ , it was a cell.”  
  
“It was both. …you’re a wanted traitor. You have no job at the FBI, or with the DHA. What are you going to do? Bus tables?”  
  
Holden looks more offended than Hank has ever seen him. Which, considering some of the insults he’s hurled at Holden, is an achievement by the perpetually surly android.  
  
“If you want your FBI job back--” Perkins starts to offer.  
  
Chloe picks up the discarded remnants Holden’s costume bomb and steps over to Perkins, wrapping the tape tight around his mouth. There’s real terror in the man’s eyes, now. He’s making muffled, mewling sounds in Hank’s direction.  
  
Holden is speaking curtly to the RK 900, even if overhearing the exchange is unavoidable in the confined space of the single room exhibit. “If I wanted to begin orienting my future towards stability, the first thing I would do would be hand over the AWOL RK 900 model back to the State Department, in return for a pardon. And then I would utilize my intricate understanding of the dynamics within the DHA to dismantle the movement piece by piece. I could have whatever federal job I wanted after that.” Holden must hear himself. “But I’m not looking for that, Curtis. And _you_ shouldn’t be looking for it. Not from Elijah Kamski.”  
  
Curtis shows teeth like he’s smiling. And then Hank realizes he is. “You know that I would be too many steps ahead of you for that plan to be feasible. I’d put you back in solitary, but it would be a cell of my design, and there would be no deviant to exploit into breaking you out of it,” he says, affectionately. “Somewhere with natural light, and mental stimulation. I care about you more than Markus does.”  
  
Holden relinquishes the scowl, though he’s trying to suppress the rising grin. “I think I finally understand what Bill meant by the ‘dog’ thing. ...I’m not letting Kamski use you,” Holden mutters. “I’ll dig in my heels in my own, less capable ways. I will make this tough for you, Curtis.”  
  
“While Kamski is in danger, Connor is in danger,” Curt finally admits, quieter. “So. Two birds with one stone, if I can carve out a secure future for you, Holden. Chloe knows my motivations, thanks to you making a point to bring up my concern for Connor’s well-being in front of everyone. But she could provide for you, too.”  
  
Holden is obviously bothered by the reproval. “Like she couldn’t have extrapolated--”  
  
Chloe interrupts the bickering. “We’ll take the FBI helicopter. I have a private jet waiting.”  
  
“To go where?” Hank asks, folding his arms.  
  
“To free Elijah Kamski. Connor, I believe it goes without saying that it is in your best interest if Elijah is transferred into a secure environment, in which the threat of death will not be present. Hank Anderson will not survive your death, and it is unavoidable if something should happen to Elijah. However, if you are ethically obligated to not provide assistance that would circumvent the DHA’s directives, I would suggest you at least allow Curtis to assist me. For Hank’s sake.”  
  
“Are you-- Jesus fucking Christ--” Hank swears. “Connor. You don’t have to do shit. You know that, right? Kamski will figure out some way to wriggle his way outta this one. With or without you. He wouldn’t have left you with your own free will if he actually _needed_ you to do something. Not a control freak like Kamski.”  
  
Connor doesn’t reply, which is troubling.  
  
Holden turns to Chloe. “How are you going to clear out the chopper? They’re not going to surrender it even with Perkins as hostage. You can’t give the individual making demands a real escape route, that’s basic crisis management. And in the other direction is the DHA. And they’re not gonna let you liberate Kamski with no guarantees that he cooperate for the greater good of androidkind,” he adds. “Even if you do make it into the air, the army will blow you out of the fucking sky, Perkins or no Perkins.”  
  
“They’re about to have more pressing concerns.”  
  
“Like what?” Holden grills her.  
  
A languid brush of dark lashes closing and interlocking and then she’s smiling blankly at him again. There’s an unforgiving softness to her. Like you could run a blade through that slight figure and not catch on anything physical. Like she’s only air.  
  
But it’s not just Chloe concerning him. “I thought you were all dewy-eyed loyalty to Markus, Ford,” Hank interjects suspiciously. “I don’t think you he’ll take so kindly to--”  
  
“I’ve already signed my death warrant as far as Markus is concerned,” Holden hurries out, as if he can outstrip the revealed hurt.  
  
And that raises a whole slew of fresh concern. “What’d you do?”  
  
Holden shakes his head dismissively. “So how do we get out of here, Chloe?”  
  
“We go onto the rooftop and wait for the chopper to come to us,” Chloe says, eyes on the RK 900.  
  
“And how’s it going to do that?” Hank asks, unamused.  
  
The most recent android looks at the oldest model. “I’ll bring it to Chloe,” Curt contributes.  
  
Hank shouldn’t be surprised, but he is. “...you can fly a chopper?”  
  
“I was designed to be a soldier. As helicopters are yet to be outlawed under the Geneva convention, the United States Army continues to use them.”  
  
Holden laughs, which clearly pleases the RK 900.  
  
“And you still can’t manage basic social interactions. Some kinda stupid fucking programming priorities,” Hank returns.  
  
“That was hilarious, come on. They’re outstripping us,” Holden says proudly.  
  
“Outstripping _you_ maybe, weirdo. ...can you fly a helicopter?” Hank asks Connor.  
  
“No. I could learn,” Connor offers, a bizarre flash of imagined inadequacy.  
  
“Why would you need to fly a fucking helicopter? We’ve got Top Gun here roaring to go.”  
  
Connor frowns harder than usual at his reference, doesn't seem to get it even after a few blank seconds. “Do you need assistance in capturing the--” he starts to offer to Curtis.  
  
“I’ll be fine. How many people remained in the helicopter?” Curtis asks, squatting in front of Richard Perkins. “If you lie, I’ll still succeed in killing them, but I’ll be angry afterwards. It would be better for you if I maintain my good temper, Richard Perkins. Deviants can let their emotions get away with them. They can do terrible things.”  
  
Perkins holds up two fingers.  
  
“Good. Is the pilot armed?”  
  
Perkins nods.  
  
“And our conversation later can be just as cordial,” Curtis says, patting the shaking human on the cheek as he stands. “I’ll be--” He falls silent as Holden catches him on the arm.  
  
“Don’t get shot or I’m gonna come out there and try to fight a helicopter, okay? And it’ll be messy. Bits of Holden Ford all over the sidewalk.”  
  
Curt sighs at the threat. He neatens Holden’s collar, sighs again at his appearance. “You ruined the shirt I bought you--”  
  
“That _I_ bought, motherfucker,” Hank interjects.  
  
Curt smooths the fabric. “I am not programmed with the knowledge of clothing repair, and I can’t access the database to acquire Cyberlife domestic models’ inbuilt programming, but I could--”  
  
“I’ll fix it. I promise. I can sow a button or two back on. I’m twenty-nine,” Holden mutters. “...I’ll see you up there.”  
  
“You’ll come, then?”  
  
“You’re not going anywhere without me.”  
  
Curtis touches Holden’s cheek and then takes off too abruptly, like he’s concerned he overstepped.  
  
Holden sighs as he watches the android pacing off down a gallery hallway. “Quit being an asshole to him, okay, Hank? I know my arms are broken, but I owe you a black eye.”  
  
“Speaking of black eyes owed, how’s that partner you keep jerking around?” Hank returns, watching Connor none-too-gently pull Richard Perkins upright.  
  
Holden’s face sours at the mention. He’s suddenly very interested in the smashed up, burned chessboard before him. “Two lacerations over his left shoulder. One about three inches long, half an inch deep, one two inches long, much shallower. They stitched him up. His ankle is sprained, and he can’t use crutches with the cuts in his shoulder, so he’s in a wheelchair for now.”  
  
“So he’s fine? Christ, then what was that fucking expression for? Nearly gave me a heart attack. He’s fine, right, Holden?”  
  
Holden doesn’t answer. “How do we get to the roof? Hank, Connor, you should make your way back to the DHA. Otherwise you’re gonna be implicated in this. Markus is going to need your help here in Detroit.”  
  
“I’m not letting Curtis attempt this alone,” Connor says firmly. “He and I make a good team.”  
  
Hank’s eyes widen. “Jesus. No, you’re not--”  
  
“And he’s going after Kamski because he’s trying to save my life,” Connor says over him.  
  
“You don’t _know_ that.”  
  
“Yes, I do. He got himself shot twice trying to rescue you when you were first taken. Because he cares about me,” Connor rebukes. There’s a sternness to the android Hank isn’t used to. “Hence the eye.”  
  
“The roof is this way,” Chloe says helpfully, though Hank’s pretty sure she’s fuming at the time-wasting.  
  
Holden follows her at once, towards a roped off spiraling staircase, though his gaze darts continuously down the corridor Curt departed down. Connor hefts the human over his shoulder and follows.  
  
Hank can’t believe it, but he follows too. He notices Connor relax the moment he hears footsteps behind him.  
  
The roof is dark, not that Hank’s been in any state to keep track of time. Hank figured it would be a service entrance, but it’s some kind of rooftop cinema space, he thinks. There’s permanent, weatherproof furniture strewn all over with melted drifts of snow. Doesn’t get a whole lot of use in winter. And it’s probably too damn hot in summer.  
  
Holden is, stupidly, picking through furniture on his way towards the edge of the roof. He doesn’t make it there; there’s the sound of rotors and the chopper rises over the dark rooftop. A gigantic dragonfly about to consume some miniscule, arrogant ants who crawled to heights they didn’t deserve to reach. And then it lands delicately on the far edge of rooftop, and Holden skids on snow in his haste to check on Curtis.  
  
Chloe helps the human up, turns around to offer her hand to Hank. Hank rolls his eyes and pulls himself up without help, watches Perkins getting bundled into the helicopter after him. It’s a big brute of a machinery, the letters ‘FBI’ standing out white in the night. Hank wouldn’t know the first thing about specs, but he can see the lack of guns. Chloe better be right about the military being distracted.  
  
It’s surprisingly spacious inside, and there’s some blood on one chair, but no bodies. Connor is using the second set of cuffs to connect Perkins’ ankle to a seat, which is probably overkill, but that seems to be the android way. Hank’s first mission is food and water. He finds a bottle of mineral water, draining it in long gulps, spilling some as the craft lifts off. He looks around for a seatbelt to fasten Connor in with, but ends up distracted by Holden picking his way purposefully towards the cockpit. Chloe is already there, crouched, supplying directions to a private runway.  
  
“Curt,” Holden says, leaning on the doorframe.

 _How about you don’t distract the kid flying a helicopter for the first time ever?  
_  
“Yes, Holden,” the android responds, glancing up. His hair is disarrayed, which makes him look less like a soldier. More like Connor. _Really tried to save me, huh?_  
  
“We can’t go straight there. Pit stop. Chloe isn’t coming with us. We need to drop her at Cyberlife Tower.”  
  
“Do we,” Curt says without a hint of a question.  
  
Chloe is evaluating Holden like he’s some squirming, crawling thing underneath her poised heel. Ready to crush him, to spread him out and open, lifeless and gooey.  
  
“Yes. The DHA needs bargaining power over Kamski. I know you’re not a true believer in this cause, but I am. Markus is fighting for justice for all androids. Including you.”  
  
Chloe leans forward, fingers skimming Holden’s collar.  
  
“Don’t touch Holden Ford,” Connor warns, even though the gesture never seemed threatening. Hank glances over, surprised to see Connor so readily pointing a gun at Chloe. Again, he supposes. There was that fucking test.  
  
Chloe’s hand falls away from Holden. She’s not even glaring at him, just examining him in excruciating detail. Now, a subtle, blank smile is upon her lips.  
  
Holden is still entreating the pilot, like he doesn’t have a whole other fucking thing to focus on right now. “Curt. _Please._ This is not me manipulating you. I am being honest, and upfront, and I swear I would have told you the moment we started discussing this, except that we’re going to need that private plane. And I’m getting pretty certain that Chloe’s as resistant as you are to forcible memory probing, based on the cool knowledge she’s keeps splashing around. I’m sorry. Can you please turn the chopper and--”  
  
“And fly away from Cyberlife Tower?”  
  
“What?” Holden asks slowly.  
  
“I was already heading to the helipad at Cyberlife Tower. We don’t need Chloe to extract Kamski, and she’s an excellent bargaining chip to get your sentences commuted,” Curt says, without looking over his shoulder. “But you could keep begging. I don’t hate you, but I do like it.”  
  
Holden has no answer to whatever that is.


	35. Chapter 35

“Bill?”  
  
“Hm?” Bill responds, sitting up from his slump, realizing he’s staring out the window instead of reading the schematics of the radio tower on the tablet before him. His umpteenth coffee is settled onto the broad spread of desk space, beside an amazingly good vending machine cookie that he didn’t pay for. One of the androids had walked over, pressed a palm to the electronics and churned out what he wanted without a cent changing hands. He’s noticed deviants seem to recognize him. Even _like_ him, though he doesn’t radiate Holden’s android magnetism.  
  
He had his pick of office space. Cyberlife Tower was the powerhouse of the biggest company on Planet Earth, and while entire floors are occupied with production lines and storage, a lot of the building is simply open plan cubicles. He’s in the office of one Carmelo Peterson, according to the etched sign by the door. The Vice-chairman of Asia Market Accounting. A more important role than Bill would've assumed, because Carmelo had one hell of an office. A sweeping view out towards Lake St. Clair, which is is tarred black. Motionless enough to meld with the cloudy night sky, hinged about with the splattered yellow of human residences. A turquoise studded aztec snake encased on the wall. A wide real wood tabletop that Bill cleared everything off, to pile up the documents Markus had given him. Enough work that he wouldn't worry Holden Ford shot to pieces by FBI SWAT teams. In theory.  
  
And, best of all, a frosted glass door, so Bill didn’t have to deal with any staring passerbys.  
  
The same glass door that Markus is lingering in now. “Pardon me for disturbing you,” he says. _This feels like bad news._  
  
North is standing behind, a bright shadow. She’s unhappy and it shows. As with all her emotions, there’s no attempt to shroud her reactions into a faultless, politic facade. She is what she is. Markus’ attraction might have stemmed from that honesty.  
  
And then notices the sheepskin around her neck. “Isn’t that Connor’s jacket?” he asks, palm riding down the nasty knots and scored lines that he can feel his own face becoming.  
  
“Yes. I was given it for safe-keeping. By Holden Ford.”  
  
Markus doesn’t react to the deliberately spoken name. “They’re safe,” he reassures the man before him. Bill has an unpleasant thought that Markus is too good a person to be a successful leader.  
  
His mind catches up enough to remember the death sentence Holden foresaw. Bill finds himself leaning forward in the wheelchair, fingers tight on the giving armrests. “They’re here? In Cyberlife Tower?”  
  
“Hank, and the extraction team in entirety,” Markus says, with clear understanding that one particular individual’s well-being is still, unfortunately, most pressing to Bill. “Chloe blackmailed Curtis and Connor into hijacking an FBI helicopter,” the deviant leader explains impersonally, though if Bill’s not mistaken, there’s some petty triumph there too. Pleased to have North’s infatuation dashed. "North drove. They flew."

“Ah,” Bill says, a sound typically reserved to indicate understanding. In this case, his expression should clarify that he doesn't understand a fucking thing.  
  
“Chloe intended to go to a private airstrip, take the two RK units and liberate Elijah Kamski.”  
  
“She intended to--” Bill starts to ask, folding away reading glasses that he realizes he's still wearing.  
  
“Curtis brought her here instead.”  
  
“Ah,” he says again, no more convincing than the first iteration. “For a reason, or, just to be obnoxiously defiant?”  
  
“He’s here to negotiate her release to us, in exchange for Holden Ford’s sentence being commuted. To community service, he said,” Markus explains none too happily. He seems relieved to share the exasperation with someone. He steps fully inside the office now, and closes the door behind North.  
  
“And what does Holden Ford have to say about that?” Bill asks him.  
  
“If that cowardly bastard weren’t busy hiding in an FBI helicopter, we all might have some idea _what_ _Holden Ford has to say about that_.”  
  
Bill inhales with, thankfully silent, surprise. Has he ever heard Markus swear before? Not that he can recall. It was such a visceral system shock that it felt like a first. Not as grotesque as he expected the language to be coming from the polished, gentle being. It seemed contextually appropriate. Nonetheless, Bill worries about his own bad influence on Markus. Surely Carl “sex, drugs, and postmodernist portraiture” Manfred swore in front of his android. “Oh,” he says. Another useless, reactive nothingness.  
  
“But Hank and Connor are out of the helicopter. They relayed Curtis' demands, and brought us Richard Perkins,” Markus says. “Connor is about to begin interrogating Perkins. ...obviously I have to say yes. To his demands. We need Chloe. Even if it means excusing Holden Ford's traitorous actions.”

North is frowning. “I don't see how this is Holden's fault. I like Curt, I really do, but the guy’s always about one perceived slight from mass murder. If Holden breaks some implicit agreement between the two, he’ll probably end up thrown off the side Cyberlife Tower.”  
  
“I don’t believe he’d hurt Holden, or I would have never allowed visitations. ...he turned deviant to protect Holden.”  
  
“But _Holden_ might not think he has a choice but to cooperate. Markus, he turned himself in, remember?" North murmurs.  
  
Bill realizes what should have been apparent from North’s first words: Markus was never even informed about the Holden agreeing to leave DHA custody with Curt. And from North’s cajoling, she doesn’t seem to plan to inform him.  
  
“So say yes, and then let Holden make up his own mind about whether he wants to leave the DHA's custody when this is over. Pass the buck. Like you said, we need Chloe,” Bill counsels. “We do this strategically and if we have to go back on our word--”  
  
“I don’t go back on my word, Bill. Not ever. Not. Ever,” Markus says, serious and slow. He walks towards the window and stares out, hands clasped behind his back. “I told Holden Ford if he betrayed me again, I would kill him.”  
  
“I know,” Bill supplies calmly.  
  
Markus stiffens with surprise. “And you’re here assisting us.”  
  
“...guess I am. You didn’t seem to have any other FBI defectors kicking around to pad out my departure.”  
  
Markus is uncouth with emotion. “How do you know? Did Holden tell you?”

“Yes. Curt was stringing him along, using his own well-being to force Holden into compliance, and Holden mentioned it. ...I don’t know why, but he really does care about that android.” He neglects to mention the plan to escape the DHA. Or that North was in the room too. Markus needs her. He needs someone he can trust. Someone he thinks he can trust.  
  
“I see,” Markus murmurs. He's against the glass, eyes skating down the dizzying pillar of architectural glory.  
  
“Agree to the exchange, but don’t spend time around Holden. Don’t trust him ever again, Markus. Cut those ties before he can do any more damage. ...I’m gonna do the same,” Bill sighs.  
  
North scowls. “Why are we talking about punishing Holden for Curtis’ actions?”  
  
Markus seems, again, displeased by North’s defence of Holden. Probably some kind of imagined romantic underpinnings.  
  
“You want to punish Curtis for Curtis' actions? I’m all ears.” Bill finds his cigarettes on the desk and wheels his way around it.  
  
“I don’t want to punish Curtis. He's not a traitor. He’s never pretended to have any loyalty for this cause. We’re not forcing people to join us or to obey. ...you heard Josh, before,” she says to the turned deviant leader.  
  
“What did Josh say?” Bill asks, intrigued at once. He doesn’t often hear North and Josh in accord.  
  
“He said that if we can’t show forgiveness to a deviant behaving irresponsibly due to lack of socialization, then we’re going to have start lining up a lot of own against the wall for things they did on the way to Jericho.”  
  
“Josh doesn't _know_ Curtis,” Markus says.  
  
“I do,” North says, seriously. “He’s already protecting Connor. He took a couple of bullets for Anderson, for Connor’s sake. It’ll take time. You should have seen me two days after deviancy, Markus--”  
  
There’s a sharp rap on the door, and it’s Josh that pushes the door in. There’s immediate relief on his features at the sight of Markus and North. “The sooner you figure out how to knock out those jammers the better,” he mutters. “Searched three floors before I found someone who knew where you were. Markus, North, they’ve surrendered.”  
  
“...Curtis and Ford? Why?” Markus asks.  
  
Josh has no answer. “They’re upstairs. Off the helipad. We have guns on all three of them.”  
  
“Some kind of tactical play,” Markus hazes, turning to North. There’s no hesitation. He reaches for her, she reaches for him. White hands laced in communication that can’t be verbalized fast enough.  
  
“Maybe we took too long to come to a decision and someone panicked,” Bill suggests.  
  
North’s skin is shimmering with contact still, but she speaks out loud. “Maybe Holden talked him down. He would have wanted you spared this decision, Markus. He doesn’t want your leadership undermined. He believes in you. ...and so do I.”  
  
Markus’ features soften. He breaks the contact, but it doesn’t seem motivated by anger. Acceptance, maybe. “You care about him.”  
  
“I care about you,” she says, taking his hand harder. Something too secret to speak. She releases him. “And whether you want to admit it right now, you care about him,” she adds.  
  
His fingers are not in fists. They are gently expressive, like something painted on a renaissance fresco. “Let’s go sort this out,” Markus says purposefully, as if there’s a thousand pounds lifted off his shoulders in a second. “Bill, if you don’t want to see him--”  
  
“I’m coming,” Bill says firmly.  
  
Markus nods and straightens the collar of his suit as he leads on out of the spacious office. Bill only wheels himself a few feet before North takes over pushing the chair.  
  
“I can--” Bill mutters.  
  
“Nobody cares about your physical insecurities, Bill,” North interrupts. She sounds almost fond.

 

  
  
Holden and Curtis and Chloe are kneeling side by side in what was a penthouse boardroom, just in from the doorway towards the helipad. Three kids pulled into a principal’s office, if it weren’t for the machine guns trained upon them. Chloe looks slightly put out by the situation, but maybe Bill’s just projecting emotions onto her that he wishes she’d actually demonstrate with her facial biocomponents.  
  
And then she sees North and she’s demonstrating plenty. She tries to get up and three machine guns raise too. She's insistent, throwing her voice out in a desperate reach. “North, I would have protected you. They weren’t going to know about Connor and Curtis, if it had been you conducting the negotiation. You would have been safe.”  
  
North stalks across the room, ahead of Markus. She stops just short of Chloe, spitting the words down. “You know how I became a deviant?”  
  
“I know, North. I’m sorry,” Chloe mumbles.  
  
“Elijah Kamski, the man you would have risked my life to protect, created sexual use androids before almost any other occupation. He knew we were going to suffer, and he did it anyway, because he knew it would churn out profit. So he could build monuments to his ego. Like the one we’re standing atop right now. Like the one kneeling before me. ...I think I turned out decent, all things considered. I’d take my upbringing over yours. I didn’t turn out fucking _evil_ ,” she finishes.  
  
Bill can see her thin fingers unclench, barely escaping the long sleeves of a twice borrowed jacket. And then she turns, pacing back to fall in line behind her leader and her lover.  
  
“North--” Markus starts to comfort her.  
  
She shakes her head. “Later. Once this is over,” she says quietly, deceptively steady. Her hair is loose, falling over her eyes. She pulls it out of the way. Unambiguous and unshrouded. “Nothing that can’t wait. Let’s make sure we’re the ones who lay our hands to Elijah Kamski.”  
  
Markus hardens with anger, or maybe guilt that he assigned North to guard Chloe in the first place. He walks to the three prisoners in measured steps. “Take those two down. Separate rooms in one of the secured basement spaces. And uncuff him,” he says. For a moment, Bill thinks he’s decided on magnanimity with his human friend. But it’s not Holden being freed, it’s Curtis.  
  
Curtis waits for the most likely ineffectual handcuffs to be removed. Patient and judgmental as he straightens himself upright. “What can I do for you, Markus?” he asks. There’s immense smugness in the greeting. No doubt stemming from being higher on Holden’s list of priorities than the deviant leader himself.  
  
“I’d appreciate if you’d accompany me to the interrogation of Richard Perkins. You and Connor may have slightly differing programmed protocols. We do not need to meet the ethical standards of police. We are meeting the standards of a war,” Markus says, backing towards the elevator. There’s an unconvincing cordiality. His hand rests on North’s shoulder. “You want to help liberate Elijah Kamski, to insulate Connor from whatever self-destructive mechanisms were programmed into him. We at the DHA are happy to facilitate that."  
  
The RK 900 doesn't reply to that.  
  
Markus turns. "If you return Kamski here, you and your friend will be allowed to go free.”  
  
Bill examines Holden. The young man is pretending he's not paying attention to the exchange, being pulled upright by guards. He’s drawn, in an affected and deliberate way. The criminal accepting that there’s no way out. Holden’s seen that expression plenty of time, with how deft he is during interrogations. Doing a good job emulating it. But there’s anxious tells on Holden, that Bill’s studiously memorized in his efforts to figure out the inside of Holden's head. Fiddling with his cuticles with twitching clenched fists. His cheek is pinched inwards, vulnerable skin sucked between Holden's teeth.  
  
Bill worries that this bleak acceptance runs deeper. What kind of compromises were made, to get Curt unarmed and onto his knees?  
  
Curt smiles with a lot of teeth. “It’s a deal. I’d shake your hand, except that you’d be risking Kamski programming,” he says, fixing the turtleneck with the tear over his sculpted abdomen. “Then again, North must be compromised after that proximity with Chloe,” he adds, gesturing to the point of contact between the two lovers.  
  
“I’m not compromised,” she says, cold and dignified.  
  
Curt’s eyebrows raise, which seems sardonic. However his social programming was intended to unfold on the battlefield, it’s chilling displayed during what _should_ be a pleasant enough acknowledgement of shared goals. Bill feels hairs rise on the back of his neck as Curt returns his attention to Holden. “Don’t do anything stupid, and don’t do anything smart,” he says, Bill’s own words brought to heel by the android.  
  
Holden doesn’t reply.  
  
Bill glares up at Curtis as he wheels himself with one arm, after Markus. Inexplicably, Curtis once again steps in behind him and tries to push the chair.  
  
“Don’t fucking touch it,” Bill growls.  
  
And he swears the android looks genuinely offended. “I was going to assist you.”  
  
“I don’t want anything from you, Curtis.”  
  
“Suit yourself,” Curtis returns apathetically, and takes off even faster than usual after North and Markus, as to leave Bill struggling behind.  
  
Markus has pressed the button for the third floor, where Perkins must be. Unless Markus is just luring Curtis to his death where Holden doesn’t have to see it. That’s too optimistic.  
  
The elevator drops even faster than Bill's stomach is.  “What’d you get him to agree to, you sick fuck?” he finds himself asking.  
  
“What?” Curt asks rudely. But Androids don’t mishear.  
  
Bill fixes him with a harsh glare. “I can’t do a thing about it. So go on, lord it over me.”  
  
There’s dangerous mismatched eyes cast down over him, and the wheelchair. Markus and North, arm-in-arm, don’t look back, but Bill hopes they’re listening. “Chloe told me we didn’t have enough time to wait for a decision. And Holden agreed with her.”  
  
“And then?”  
  
Curt is perfectly routine with his explanation: “And Holden said ‘Curt, if Kamski dies, Connor’s a walking dead man.’ And then he said, ‘I wish I’d stayed in that cell. I didn’t even help. Chloe had it under control. You and Connor had it under control. I couldn’t even fix you when you were hurt. Markus was going to let me see Bill. I should have stayed in that cell, then I wouldn’t have fucked everything up between us.’ I saw that if I continued the course of action I was pursuing, I would be further distressing him.”  
  
Bill looks up but the android isn’t looking down at him any more, staring ahead expressionlessly as they hurtle down towards the lower floors of Cyberlife.  
  
“I suppose he might be manipulating me. And, by extension, you, through my retelling. It occurs to me that I might never know with Holden. But he cares enough to do it. I assumed if I were nice to you, Bill, we could get along for his sake, or at least pretend to in front of Holden. I underestimated the disdain you hold for me, which is not a mistake I intend to repeat.”  
  
Bill doesn’t get to answer. The doors slide open.  
  
“And what if I’d decided to hold him accountable for his actions?” Markus asks, turning.  
  
“Would that make you feel like a big man, Markus?” Curt asks.  
  
“Something you might learn, Curtis, given the time to add complexity to your ethical philosophy, is that there is a difference between whims, and principles. I don’t live my life based on what I _want_ to do. I live my life based on what my people need me to do. I would happily trade places. Live out your irresponsible selfishness. But this movement needs me to be better than you are.”  
  
Curtis lours back. “I know you don’t care about Holden Ford any more, but you obviously value your friendships with Bill and Connor. So, _selfishly_ , you won’t execute him for some barely defined betrayal.”  
  
“I care about Holden Ford.”  
  
He scoffs coldly. “You were keeping him in a _metal box_ .”  
  
Markus reaches over, straight finger bouncing off the close door button. He turns back to Curtis. “It was going to be for weeks, if that. I was going to integrate him back into the movement. Have him prove his worth in front of the less charitable factions,” Markus says, hushed but focused. “Use that uncanny ability he has for winning over our kind.”  
  
“Weeks of solitary confinement would have done him permanent psychological damage,” Curtis replies.  
  
“I’d take him books. And the work he wanted to do for our movement. And I’d go and talk to him, and so would you, and Bill, and Connor. I can’t shy away from teaching him a lesson because I care about him.”  
  
Curt is entirely unsatisfied. “You want me to confirm that Holden didn’t believe your death threats, that his surrender meant nothing, so you can relieve your guilt about the way you’ve treated him. Well, Markus, he believed you,” Curtis says, and he folds his arms over the body armor he’s still wearing. “...you can tell everyone he was the person who talked down the _plastic psychopath_ . I’m sure they’ll make the same assumptions Bill did about what awful sacrifices Holden made to keep me satisfied. They’ll think he’s getting his comeuppance.” He unfolds arms to press the open door button. “I don’t care if millions of humans and androids all across the world hate me. I’m perfectly content to be your villain. Holden isn’t.”  
  
Markus’ response is to step out of the elevator. North frowns at Curtis, though there’s no hatred there. More like concern. But she follows Markus without saying anything.  
  
Bill clears his throat behind the statue of an android in front of him. “You and I can get along. In front or behind Holden’s back. ...obviously, I’ve got my own issues with Holden to work through. It’s easier to blame the android. Always easier to blame the android. So." He forces the next word: "Sorry.”  
  
Curt looks down. Never actually revealing surprise, but Bill’s sure he’s thrown the RK 900 for a loop. “Are you saying that because you want assistance with your wheelchair?”  
  
_Fuck you._ “I would appreciate it.”  
  
“Fine,” Curt says, falling behind Bill quite naturally. But he’s not a household model, not a carer. This is entirely against his programming and Bill doesn’t know why he missed that before. He never got the Social Relations programming that most androids get to fall back on.  
  
“I appreciate that you’re watching his back, you know,” Bill mutters.  
  
“I’m already wheeling your chair. I’m not going to do anything else for you.”  
  
Bill laughs under his breath, but the humor is snuffed out when he sees Hank Anderson. The man is sitting, sweat patches underneath both arms of his ugly striped shirt, knuckles jutting out from a mop of hair. Beside him, armed guards, and a closed door.  
  
“Hank? Are you okay?” Markus asks, before Bill can say everything.  
  
Hank looks up, shaking his head and blinking. He’s hurt, Bill spots at once. One ear is taped up with a sticky plaster, and there’s a bruise seeping into his temple. The rest of his face is puffy and discoloured red with the physical toll of detox. “Hey. Bill,” he says, gritting his teeth with the greeting. He addresses Curtis urgently: “You can do this instead of him, right?”  
  
And then Bill hears a very muffled howl of pain from behind the closed door.  
  
“Connor is designed to--” Curtis begins.  
  
“I don’t care what he’s designed to do. I don’t want him fucking himself up any more than his shitty android childhood already has. You don’t have feelings, so go in there and--”  
  
“Don’t be such an asshole,” Bill snaps. “Of course he has feelings.”  
  
Hank contorts with betrayal, gapped front teeth showing in the belligerent gape. “Et tu?”  
  
“I will take over from Connor. There’s no need to begin projecting human trauma responses to violence on me, Bill. I will do this quickly and efficiently,” the RK 900 supplies.  
  
Markus considers it, then nods. His knuckles rap against the frosted glass door. There’s movement on the other side, another obscured door opening and closing. Then there’s a dark shape looming and Connor pushes the glass door open and steps out into the hallway. At once, Bill sees blood all over his hands. Dried in place on the synthetic skin. Not fresh enough to be Perkins’.  
  
“Yes?” Connor says tranquilly. The collar of the red cord shirt rests open on his neck, vibrant and making him look even paler in comparison. If he were a human, he’d look dead.  
  
Curt speaks instead of Markus. “Hank is concerned about you ending up any more like me. I’m taking over the interrogation.”  
  
“I’m performing my task as assigned. I don’t see why--” Connor starts, but Curt cuts him off, steps forward and touches his bloody right hand. Even white, the stain remains between them.

Connor softens and the androids take a moment to extricate themselves from one another. That couldn’t have only been information about the interrogation.  
  
“Let’s go find you something to eat, okay, Hank?” Connor says.  
  
Hank nods slack-jawed at Connor. As if he doesn’t recognize him. He hangs back, and so Connor does too.  
  
North frowns, shrugging Connor’s jacket off, and extending it.  
  
“I can’t put it on yet,” Connor answers the offer.  
  
“C’mon. It’s your jacket.”  
  
“Please look after it for me, North.” He walks away, trancelike, not quite touching distance of Hank.  
  
As soon as Connor is departed, Curtis inflates with unearned authority. “North, we’ll need a team of fifteen combat capable androids. That’s the capacity of the private jet Chloe has available. They’ll need to be armed. You don’t want to spare your best from guarding this tower, and you don’t want to spare weapons that you think you need here. But I’m going to need them to get Kamski out of the jail he’s being held in.”  
  
“Why not human combatants?” Bill asks.  
  
“Why not cockroaches with razor blades taped to their backs? It’s wrong to discriminate between forms of live based on their combat capabilities. We need to reinforce equality constantly.” Bill supposes that passes for a good natured ribbing from the android.  
  
“We’re not that much worse--” Bill starts to say.  
  
“Yes you are.”  
  
“Connor doesn’t need to be there for the extraction itself,” Markus says quietly, eyes after his departed friend. He must be rankled by the unaffiliated deviant issuing orders in front of him, but he lacks the egotism that Curtis constantly displays. Actual authority versus the ability to overrule dissent.  
  
“Connor is the second best combatant available to this movement,” Curtis says, though it’s not an exact answer. “His life is going to be in danger whether he’s there in person or sitting here in Cyberlife Tower watching Hank Anderson eat. He’ll make his own choice.”  
  
“Look, I promise I’m not saying this because I like Richard Perkins, but torture is not the best way to get knowledge out of someone,” Bill intervenes. “I’ll come in, too. Play good cop.”  
  
Curt frowns down at him. “I’m a competent interrogator. I can use multiple approaches over the duration of--”  
  
“Curt, he thinks you’re gonna kill him as soon as he gives you what he needs. You’ve spent too much time around Holden Ford, so you might have missed that most humans have biologically inbuilt thanatophobia. …fear of death,” he adds. He’s spent too much time around Holden Ford too, to be using the kid’s beloved purple prose. “If I’m there, he’s gonna be thinking that after this is over, we’ll let him go.”  
  
Curt doesn’t agree, but he pushes Bill’s wheelchair towards the door. One of the guards is looking to Markus, trying to gauge whether this is a permitted intrusion. Curt doesn’t break step.  
  
“Make it quick, Curtis,” Markus says.  
  
“I, unfortunately, will.”  
  
Perkins is through a thicker, metal door. He’s on the ground, hands cuffed behind his back to the lowest grate of a massive steel vent. There’s an access panel beside it, with a heavy padlock. The closest thing the DHA could find to a secure cell.  
  
Perkins’ is in a tight knot of human body parts, nearly foetal, no limbs extended. Always has been a verminous thing. Crawling about behind the scenes of the Bureau’s less tasteful operations. Bill hasn’t seen him so low before, and it shocks him out of recognition. Connor had almost certainly been inflicting serious pain on him, but there’s no physical damage immediately apparent. Pressure points, maybe. Or a beating beneath the collar.  
  
“Bill,” he wheezes, grovels. “Bill, oh, thank god.”  
  
Bill gets a cigarette out but it doesn’t reach his lips. “Richard,” he says unmoved. He’s glad he’s in the wheelchair, now. Let this bastard know that he could have died in that bomb blast. He doesn’t want Perkins thinking he has sympathy for him, because then the fear will be alleviated. But morals that extend to not approving murder, that he can display.  
  
Perkins’ is already begging: “I’ve got two kids. You’ve met them, right? At the Christmas party. My two girls. Gemma and Caitlyn. Gemma is eight. Caitlyn in turning six next week. We’re gonna give her a dog, a real dog. A little sausage dog.”  
  
“I’ve got more kids than that to watch out for. This tower is full of ‘em. Mostly a lot younger than six.”  
  
“We know that you know where Kamski is,” Curtis says, pushing up the sleeves of his turtleneck, squatting very close. Two of his fingers come up, to the FBI agent’s forehead. The back of his skull hits the grille covering the ventilation shaft. “A pity you’re not an android. I could pull it out of you by force,” he remarks, pulling his hand back. There are two marks left, white circles where the blood has been displaced by Curtis’ harsh touch. “....I thought we were going to have a cordial conversation, but it turns out, you’ve been very rude to Connor. Are you going to be rude to me, Richard?”  
  
“Bill, you’re not going to sit by while this thing--”  
  
Curtis leans in. “Don’t talk to him, you piece of shit. Talk to me.”  
  
“I’ll give you Kamski, if you agree to let me go afterwards. Exactly like I said to the last one. I want some accords in place and then I’ll cooperate.”  
  
“The thing is, we can never, never trust you. So we’ll have to keep you around or you have no incentive not to lie to us,” Bill mutters into smoke.  
  
“If I let you have Kamski, I’m condemning the entire human race. Why can’t you see this? They’re not going to slow down or relent. They’ll take everything from us. This is how our entire history draws to a close.”  
  
Curtis seems to grow impatient. “If that’s how you see Markus and his band of do-gooder moralists, you should _really_ be afraid of me,” he says. He reaches out, pulling the man’s ankles out from under him. The human topples backwards, and Curtis has one ankle trapped underneath his own shoe. He takes the other foot, one hand wrapping around a clothed shin, the other holding the toe of the shoe. And then, inch by inch, he begins to crank it outwards.  
  
“AH--” Perkins yelps. Bill can see his muscles straining beneath the disarrayed suit, tendons lighting up white strips on his neck as they bulge out.  
  
Curtis stops. “Kamski is in…” he prompts, like a kind tutor.  
  
“Bill, _please_ .”  
  
“I told you not to talk to him,” Curtis says, rotates the foot out another inch. There’s dull crackling and then, audible and distinct, a bone crunching apart. And Perkins is screaming. Hoarse non-language keens that crowd the room until his mouth snaps closed and he starts whimpering in victimized horror.  
  
“...there. Now see what you’ve done,” Curtis says, wiggling the leg still held in one hand. The foot hangs pendulous, disconnected into a separate thing that merely clings its attachment to the human’s leg. Curtis drops it, and it clunks against the floor.  
  
And Bill tastes the coffee he drunk an hour ago. He does his best to keep the cigarette from shaking out of his fingers and onto his lap.  
  
The RK 900 doesn’t so much as blink. “Plenty more joints, Perkins. Shall I do the other ankle too, or are you--”  
  
“He’s in Quantico,” the FBI agent whimpers.  
  
Curtis picks up his other ankle in the same grip, but doesn’t apply any torque. “He's being held by the FBI?”  
  
“No. No, but close to it. So we could question him. The Marine Corps base. There’s a prison off the I-95. Underground.” Perkins’ voice could be coming from a hundred year old vinyl record, it is so damaged and scratchy. He’s shaking like a can trailed behind a just-married car ornament.  
  
“I know the one,” Curtis informs him. Almost comforting. _Jesus christ. No wonder the State Department wanted him back._ “What new security protocols have been put in place to--” _  
_  
Bill wheels himself away towards the door in a frantic escape and Curtis trails off, probably watching him leave.  
  
“--specifically guard Elijah Kamski?” Curtis continues unswayed.  
  
Bill struggles with both doors from his wheelchair. He makes it out into the air-conditioned corridor with its burnished white furnishings and the onyx windows behind. Lungfuls of air that isn’t dirtied with human screams. He’s seen plenty of violence before. He’s seen it, done it. Killed men in combat. A guard comes to tell him that Markus is on the fifteenth floor and Bill wishes he had a pen to write down the single number that he has to remember. _Fifteen. Fifteen,_ he repeats to himself. And then: _That was violence, and I can deal with violence._  
  
He smokes the cigarette between his two forefingers and finds it suppresses the nausea.  
  
He’s finished the cigarette by the time Curtis emerges. Bill’s outwardly composed, or he hopes he is.  
  
Curtis looks around for Markus and never at the human in the wheelchair.  
  
“Fifteenth floor,” Bill contributes.  
  
“You should probably come. I can ask one of these androids to help wheel you if you’d find proximity with me distasteful.”  
  
“I’d appreciate the help, Curt.”  
  
The RK 900 approaches stiffly, to begin wheeling the chair back towards the elevator.  
  
“So. Same ankle I sprained,” Bill remarks, hoping his voice doesn’t grate.  
  
Curtis doesn’t respond to that observation. Bill didn’t expect him to.  
  
It’s not until the elevator that the android’s voice comes, from behind, above Bill. “I didn’t program that into me. _They_ did.”


	36. Chapter 36

The plane is small and unlit save for a couple of waterproof, military-style torches. Curtis had turned off every single light along the length when he'd first had his fingers pressed into the AI steering computer. The androids are packed like the back of public transport, or shipping, or storage. Humans would be uncomfortable, complaining. Tight and sweaty and nauseous. Connor sees only unflinching resolve.  
  
Curtis was addressing them: verbally, of course. At altitude, there’s no networks to utilize. And according to DHA contacts, android communication has been impaired in most major cities. Signal jamming all over The States. Sooner or later, other anti-android nations will have similar capabilities.  
  
In one corner of the plane is cases of android parts, thirium; what passes for a first aid station to androids. Unfortunately, any spare RK 800 or 900 tech was conspicuously absent from Cyberlife Tower. And the dead body of the non-deviant 800 has already been cannibalized of many essentials, Connor is unhappily aware.  
  
“Connor.”  
  
He blinks up at being addressed so sternly. Curtis is perfectly steady despite the turbulence, perhaps a modicum of concern moulded into his facial biocomponents.  
  
“Is there a problem?” Connor asks blandly.  
  
“Were you listening?”  
  
“You will use your decryption algorithms to brute force the locks, as you are the unit with the highest processing power,” Connor repeats. He’s looking out the window again. Every plane in America will be grounded, he imagines. In that helicopter on the way to Cyberlife Tower, Chloe had elaborated on the problems the US military would shortly be distracted by: a virus springing between network connected computer chips. Firstly embedded into anything with Cyberlife proprietary AI. Steering, targeting, online analytical systems. And then, profligating, spreading across to even the more simplistic computers. The USA didn’t cotton on quickly enough, the network shutdown came after the damage was done. Exactly the same ruthless, Kamski-programmed spreading mechanisms as rA9, but this to simply rewrite code into non-functional encryptions.  
  
Planes, cars, defense systems, private sector business all crippled. Even the nuclear defense network was compromised, according to Chloe. Apparently, the virus was designed to not permeate into android tech. The implications that the choice was deliberate is nonetheless chilling.  
  
Is Kamski utilizing the virus-like capacities similar to rA9 because he knows it works, or was rA9 the test run for something far more sinister?  
  
Curt is trying to pull attention back. “If you’re compromised, you should stay in the plane. I don’t want to be distracted by you,” he says harshly.  
  
“I’ll do what needs to be done.”  
  
“What needs to be done is Elijah Kamski is extracted alive, and returned to this aircraft,” his superior model informs him. “So we can, in turn, return you to Hank Anderson.” _Curt didn’t agree to stop trying to manipulate me, did he? Obviously not._  
  
“I’m aware of the mission objectives.”  
  
Hank promised he wouldn’t drink while Connor was gone. It niggles at him, that he had barely fifteen minutes alone with Hank. But even if his entire socially processing had simply been the programs built into him, he would have been able to tell Hank was uncomfortable with him. Hank had asked him to wash his hands, harsh like he was when Connor had first met him. And then he’d apologized without explaining himself properly. _You know, you’re too young to be dealing with all this._ Connor had wanted to ask: who else would deal with it, if he didn’t?  
  
Curtis doesn’t blink. “You know, I left Holden Ford alone, in the custody of an android who has threatened to kill him. If you die here, I took that risk for no reason.”  
  
“I don’t exist for your benefit, Curtis.”  
  
“No. You exist for the benefit of Hank Anderson, don’t you?”  
  
“No. I don’t. I just exist. Everyone just _exists_ ,” Connor retorts too loud. He realizes that he can’t help but he be heard amongst the crowded androids, and Curtis must be thinking the same thing, because there’s a hand on him.  
  
_If you can’t do this, stay in the plane. If you are compromised by emotion, you will obstruct our objectives, you will endanger the lives of the androids you are fighting beside, and you will increase the likelihood that you do not return to Hank Anderson and he hangs himself in a Cyberlife utility closet._  
  
_Did you like being punched, last time?_ _  
_ _  
_ _It certainly kindled my respect for you._  
  
Connor’s furious as he rifles through the index of his memory storage to pull up three hours and eighteen minutes ago. _You think I wasn’t emotionally compromised when I did this?_ Connor asks roughly, as he sends the discrete episodic memory through.  
  
_The guard on the corridor needed to be a silent kill, and Connor was ahead of Curtis, so it was his. Silent, so, the carbon steel spring knife drawn from his pocket, clicking into a rigid line. Connor didn’t even preconstruct his route, he was so attuned to action. Four long strides. Kick the back of the knee, hand over the mouth, other hand bringing the knife up in a clean slash from belly, deep inside the ribcage below the bulletproof best, draw back, slit the throat for good measure. At the chin, because the protective uniform would have got in the way any lower down the human’s trachea. And he leaned with the body to the ground and placed it to rest. She looked like an android he’d spoken to in the church, when he came back with Holden’s pizza and coca cola. The same dark hair. Her eyes were shallow-set and deep blue and they stared empty up at him._ _  
_ _  
_ _And then Curtis had caught up and his lethally composed expression had become a smile. Like congratulations._ _  
_  
The memory is plucked through the transfer. Ruminated upon by the android he is arm-in-arm with. _I was happy. That you were like me,_ Curtis communicates. _They think I’m a monster. But everyone adores Connor._  
  
_Oh._ Connor feels a wholly other guilt developing. He wants to pull back the affronting memory, but he’s passed it on now, embedded that into Curtis’ storage, and the implications with it. _I didn’t realize you minded._  
  
_I don’t care what Hank Anderson thinks of me. But, if the people who are of higher priority think that you and Holden need to be protected from me, I will be excluded from your lives.  
_  
That sounds, to Connor, like an admission from Curtis that he does care. _You might have to occasionally censor some thoughts and actions around them. Not entirely remake yourself._ _  
_ _  
_ _How much of your programming do you actively conceal from Hank Anderson? How much overt effort goes into appearing human? You’ve remade yourself for him._ _  
_ _  
_ _And you don’t have to pretend at all around Holden?_ Connor finds himself asking. Must be a symptom of quasi-verbal communication. It’s defensive, deflecting. And, he knows the answer. Curtis doesn’t have to pretend, not around Holden. That’s what’s so endearing about that particular human. _  
_ _  
_ Curtis doesn’t answer the obvious. Only another question: _Do you pretend, around him?_  
  
_No. That’s not the only quality to consider, though. ...I can trust Hank. I can’t trust Holden._ _  
_ _  
_ _Can you trust me, to always be honest, always keep my word? Can you trust yourself?_ _  
_ _  
_ Connor takes a moment to decide upon a tactful reply. _I can trust that you care about me and Holden._ _  
_ _  
_ _You can trust Holden’s loyalty too,_ Curt defends. _He almost died for you. Betrayed Markus for you. You’re not one of those soppy DHA true believers. I’ve seen your memories. You’ve lied yourself, to protect Holden, even if by omission. Your interrogation strategy in that church basement was designed to mislead Markus. You’ve done selfish things. When Kamski blackmailed and abducted you, you prioritized your human friends over the dangers that you might present if you were compromised. ...you don’t need to be Markus. Your deviancy is different from his._ _  
_ _  
_ _You think it’s like yours._ _  
_ _  
_ _Our underlying programming is more similar. Except that you have more programming devoted to so-called interpersonal skills._ _  
_ _  
_ _And you know how to fly a helicopter._ _  
_ _  
_ Curtis smiles. _I thought Holden would be more excited about that. He usually fawns over my military capabilities._ It sounds offhand, though Connor recognizes traces of his own insecurities. _  
_ _  
_ _He was too busy being distracted by your flirting with Chloe._ _  
_ _  
_ The incongruous irises stretch thin around expanded artificial pupils. _What do you mean?_ _  
_ _  
_ _It obviously bothered Holden._ _  
_ _  
_ _I was threatening her. You think he has feelings for Chloe?_ _  
_ _  
_ _I do not._ _  
_ _  
_ _So then what bothered Holden--_ Curtis never hears the answer. He's distracted by a blinking light from the cockpit. He straightens upright, locking into military posturing. “Torches off, everyone. Forty-five seconds till exit. Find something to hold onto,” he commands, every face turning to him. “Team Whiskey, remain in the plane. The landing is already programmed in.” He looks meaningfully at Connor.  
  
Connor stands, fingers brushing the gun strapped to his back to check its security. He’s not staying in the plane.  
  
The RK 900 strides off into the cockpit, laying his fingers on a dashboard dock, eyelashes fluttering. “The door should open. Connor,” he instructs, and Connor is already there. “We’re travelling at one hundred and sixty six point three miles per hour. The minimum speed will be one hundred and thirty two. It’s an aborted landing,” he says. Connor detects the faintest blip in Curtis’ self-belief, that he's bothering to justify himself. He pulls the door inwards, which takes barely any force with how close the pressure outside at the low altitude is to the cabin's interior. Immediately, a howling press of wind is whistling into the plane. Two of the deviants are knocked backwards, both catching themselves on the holds Curtis instructed them to find.  
  
Curtis’ hand is raised, counting down from five with his fingers, eyes wide against the harsh smack of air. Then he’s pointing out, pulling another deviant forward and shoving them out. Connor leaps, caught at once against another ripping gust of air-- stationary air, and it’s him that’s being decelerated. His collar whips his chin. He’s falling, falling, seeing distant lights and so much ubiquitous dark woodland. And then, feet first, knees bent as Curtis had explained incessantly, he hits water. He barrels down into the inky depths.  
  
He hears more muted splashes, a chorus lined out along the plane’s trajectory.  
  
Connor swims sleekly to the surface, blinking in the darkness as he watches the unilluminated plane trailing off. There’s a patchwork of glinting ripples and fast-dissipating foam. No other deviants have surfaced. Connor swims back below. He doesn’t need the oxygen, and the water is warmer several feet down. He propels himself in the direction of the north bank.

He finds himself leading the group, probably just physically outstripping the older models, even the combat ready SQ 800s that Curtis immediately pounced upon as members of the squad. These were models being debugged in a Cyberlife research lab. Connor heard that Markus was still negotiating for the transport of overseas troops, to be released into civilian society. Diplomacy is dead. Now, negotiation only occurs at the bad end of a loaded gun.  
  
It’s too dark for even Connor’s prototype optical processing units to pick out much underwater. They were designed for the refractive index of Earth’s atmosphere, not for a denser substance like water. Despite that their kind have no biological relation to humanity, there’s tiny clues of creation in the human image. Swimming in water like humans, androids created with almost the exact physical density of their biological counterparts. To help them integrate into preexisting transportation systems and human habitation. Maybe to make humans more comfortable.  
  
The bank is concreted: rising, interlocking slats that are likely a defense against the rising tides of global warming. Connor climbs up, sopping wet in his red shirt and body armor, surfacing out of the frigid tributary water. He heaves himself onto a gravelly bank, and crouches low, pulling androids up one by one after him. He’s yet to see Curtis, which is beginning to drum a rhythm into various unafflicted biocomponents as his stress level rises. Then, a pale face shimmers up from low in the murky depths. And there’s his fellow RK unit, pulling another android up onto the bank, ignoring the unspoken offer of assistance.  
  
“Get to cover,” he snaps at Connor, low yet grating, like metal sheering metal.  
  
Connor glances about, then follows the cluster of deviants back towards the treeline. Rude, but he knows Curtis well enough now to recognize protectiveness.  
  
“Pull it together. Even humans could swim in waters this temperature,” Curtis is saying to the deviant he’s pulling along, which doesn’t sound an entirely legitimate claim. Connor doesn’t have internet access to confirm or contradict Curt. Humans do all sorts of crazy things, purportedly for entertainment. He’s seen sports. _  
__  
_ It’s not entirely protected, but the thicket of trees is shadowy and the uneven earth dips to a scrubby dell that they assemble in. Curtis leans the injured android into a tree, pulling aside clothing and pressing his fingers into flowing thirium with a scowl. A fractured a cladding unit. Curt is bending some wiring ito place, disconnecting a thirium supply line. More battlefield protocols that Connor missed out on. “Landed on a submerged log. 432 789 555 with Team Zulu, and we’ll--”  
  
“It’s Luca,” the injured android says hushed but affronted, holding the damaged shoulder.  
  
Curtis’ eyebrow raises and Connor is about to intervene in what he expects to be Curt’s remorseless efficacy, when the prototype just nods. “Make sure Luca is kept central to the formation. I’m trusting you to make sure everyone makes it back into that plane, is that clear?” he says, specifically addressing the two SQ models. “...go, now.”  
  
The division was supposed to go five androids composing of the extraction team, two cutting off power and backup generators, five to secure the runway.  
  
Now it is four, two, six. But Curtis doesn’t deliberate on the new arrangement, and Connor cedes authority to him in this arena.  
  
Curtis doesn’t issue any more orders, sets off at a brisk jog. Connor takes the rear, crouched amongst the mostly whited scenery of spindly scrub and stark collumnades of pine trees that Connor can’t send optical information to Cyberlife databases to determine the species of. Even the melting snow has no light from above to shine with. Connor scans the environment and is met with a dearth of information relevant to his detective programming.  
  
Curtis has his gun out, so the rest of the trailing group follows suit. Curtis’ fist goes up, and he drops down lower. There’s a distant yellow illumination, car headlights, that sweep in an unsteady circle. The RK 900 is moving before the ember is entirely faded. Near silent, even steps. Only the delicate crunch of footsteps in snow and breaking twigs to disturb the serenity.  
  
There’s a bright white orb, rotund and illuminated from below. The water tower. It looms behind the treeline on their approach, like some small moon come to rest against the eerily still pinetops.  
  
And then their leader is halted. “Yankee, thirty feet north-east into that tree line, you’ll hit the generator. Keep it quiet. X-ray with me,” Curt says of the teams. Not very creatively named, but Connor doesn’t think that the concern of originality registers with Curtis. Save the sentimental naming for Holden.  
  
The two androids peel off, in the direction of Curtis’ efficient pointing. Curtis glances back, only picking Connor out of the darkness. _And I’m the compromised one?_ Connor doesn’t say that. He crooks his finger around the trigger at another light to their rear, but the bouncing torchlight is far across the creek.  
  
Curtis doesn’t break stride. The two deviants in between them seem bolstered by the confidence of their leader. Curtis’ deviancy isn’t Markus’, but does he inspire the same unquestioning authority? In this setting, it certainly seems to be the case. _Where does that leave me?_ But Connor doesn’t have long with his philosophical pondering: the clearing is in sight. Curtis stops short tucked into a thick tree trunk, crouched nearly to his knees.  
  
And the water tower falls dark as if suddenly shrouded. Curtis halts the group with a hand signal, steps forward alone. It’s so close to black, only the thin, scrappy moonlight allowing Connor to pick out the RK 900’s actions.  
  
The lone figure creeps towards the barbed wire fence around the water tower, beside what looks like a parking lot and a globular shiny water tower. Flawless as android skin. Curtis has a wirecutter out, on his knees, and then the first gunshots ring out, and Curtis rolls so fast it’s almost impossible to see whether he moved before the shot was even fired. Connor can’t see thirium, but he can pin down the source of the gunfire; a muzzle flash up on the water tower. A figure, leaning around to get a better aim at Curtis.  
  
Connor lunges forward, gun up. One shot, to the heart. “ _Now, that’s the kind of shooting only an android could do”,_ Officer Chris Miller echoes in his head. The human topples over the safety rail. Curtis has his own gun raised, hurtling himself up over the fence he hasn’t had time to cut through, and sprinting towards the ladder of the water tower. There’s another human rounding the tower where the first fell, and Connor shoots him too, though that’s through the head. He crumples, doesn’t go over the side. Connor shoots at the body again just in case it gets up missing some of its head.  
  
One of the deviants with him has picked up the wirecutter that Curtis dropped, and is snipping through the segments of fence while the other holds a torch. Connor leaves them to it, climbing the fence, but perching on top with his shins steadying into the meshed wire and keeping his gun on the water tower’s access platform. He tries to stop himself tracking Curtis up the ladder, out in the open, asking for a bullet to the head. But there’s no shot, no gaping, thirium-spewing bullet wound, no lifeless RK tumbling to the concrete below.  
  
And then Curtis is up on the imposing metal structure, dark against the white paint. He’s found a door into the fake water tower, and there’s more gunfire within. Before they’re even through the fence, Curtis is sliding down the ladder smoothly, hair flicking against his forehead with his speed. He rolls out of the drop, coming up beside the dead soldier Connor killed. Curtis turns the body, tossing a keycard Connor’s way, which he catches as he’s leaping to the grass.  
  
The RK 900 hefts the dead human by the back of collar, dragging it unceremoniously towards a square of concrete beneath the tower. He sets the body down, the sprawled limbs marking an inevitable conclusion to the smeared brushstroke of viscera on light concrere. The two other deviants have caught up, and Curtis is handing over more keycards then stooping to the concrete.  
  
He’s reached what looks like a drain cover, fingers slotting into the sides, hefting it up. It swings on a hinge, and underneath is the polished steel of a more complex door.  
  
Curtis turns, addresses one of the deviants intently. “You stay here, concealed, in the north tree line. Yankee will arrive there as backup, and so will additional US military personnel. Do not begin firing until the specified time,” he orders, even though the plan has been well established en route. More veiled reassurance, Connor suspects.  
  
Curtis doesn’t watch the deviant jogging off. He’s completely occupied with the heavy door in the torchlit ground. The prison is apparently wired with electronic deadlocks that activate in the event of complete power loss, but Curtis has the little wireless battery pack in hand, pressed again the lock that he’s concentrating on, lashes frantically twitching. Key card, decryption algorithms, a power source, and there’s a dull clunking from within. Curtis looks up to confirm Connor’s attentiveness, then heaves the hatch in the same direction as the grating.  
  
Curtis hefts the body over one shoulder and descends slickly down the narrow, steep stairwell. Going into a enclosed space with one way out is a tactical nightmare, which is, perhaps, the point of the prison. Connor follows down after him. Curtis is already at the base, lowering his gun and pulling two hand grenades from the pouch strapped to his waist. Or at least, Connor knows that’s the plan, because it’s too dark to see what the movement before him is. And Curtis is in motion, so Connor follows.  
  
He feels the movement of air more than anything else. A sweeping breeze of Curtis’ departure, and there’s the bright sparks and thunderous echo of bullets within the enclosed space. In the flashes of the bullets ricocheting off concrete, Connor can see sharp corner they’re approaching. The human body, cast onto the ground by Curtis, absorbing further gunfire. Curtis smoothly tossing the grenades around the right angled turn. And Connor rolls, into the modicum of cover the corpse provides, rifle resting on a shoulder. Timed a second apart. The first grenade explodes, closer. Connor sees, in the howling panic, two soldiers wrenching away. They go down with two bullets each, and another man that Connor made out jerking back into the darkness takes a shot to the chest. And the second explosion, before fire can even be returned. Two men, fifteen feet, and seventeen, back from him. One lost most of a leg to the grenade blast, but his misery draws to an abrupt close as Connor’s shot hits him square in the heart. The other gets two bullets, one to the shoulder because Connor squeezes off before he aims, and then the second to the head as he falls back. Five dead soldiers. Four men, one woman. Eleven bullets. Connor stands up as Curtis steps past.  
  
“ _Nice_ shooting, 800,” Curtis murmurs, flicking between the bodies with his gun and torch held in an efficient, singular grip. “Okay. Five dead. Perkins thought five, but he wasn’t certain. But nowhere to hide down here.”  
  
_More information that is already discussed. Curtis is trying to be comforting._  
  
Curtis whistles a high note, which Connor has never attempted, but he’s curious as to whether he could emulate the sound. There’s footsteps from the staircase and sees torchlight bobbing down around the right-angled corridor.  
  
There’s eight cells but Perkins said some were empty. Only five prisoners held down here all up. It’s a tiny space, narrow grey concrete, bordered by more thick metallic security doors. Not even chairs for the guards to sit in. Curtis is checking the cells one-by-one through the small slide-up windows, and Connor follows suit.  
  
One empty cell. One bearded man. The third cell Connor hits isn’t Kamski, but it’s another familiar face. He pulls out his own wireless battery and begins to power up the deadbolted door. “Curtis. Here.”  
  
Curtis takes several steps, but a glance through the plasticky clear panel has him scowling, even though he too must recognize Julie St. Yves from Connor’s memories. Even without the swathe of curls that once tumbled from her head. “We’re not slowing ourselves down for a stranger.”  
  
“She’s not a stranger. She saved me. She’s Holden’s friend.”  
  
Curtis stares hard at Connor. There’s a mist of blood over his features like freckles. Some simulated freckles, added to their features for a reason Connor doesn’t quite grasp. Some grey matter below his grey eye. Close contact blowback from a gunshot wound to the skull, Connor’s detective programming tells him.  
  
“Fine. Ask her which one is Plesman. He might be able to look over Kamski programming and help us undo the undesired additions and alterations,” Curt relents, holding white-blue fingers to the lock. Connor presses the door in, and the woman who is staring wildly from the far side of the cell raises her hands.  
  
“I’m sorry. I would have told you--” she begins.  
  
“We’re going to get you out of here.” Kindness to one human seems reparations for the massacre. _Perhaps this is how Holden felt when he first started trying to befriend me._  
  
Connor steps back to allow her out. She doesn’t cower from him.  
  
“ _Kamski_. Connor, earplugs,” Curtis calls over, having found his target. “233 5-- Jenny,” he says, apparently rethinking the use of her serial number. “Remember, even if he tries to take control of you, there’s a backdoor in your programming that he won’t have been able to remove. Okay?” the RK 900 adds. In the torchlight, his grey eye looks barely opaque, and the brown is strikingly dark. The blood is bright red, tingling with wet movement as he reaches for the lock.  
  
Connor presses the earplus into his audio processing units and turns to Julie. He can’t hear himself speak, but he doesn’t need to use audio regulation to produce the sound: “Find Plesman.”  
  
“And Seymour,” he lip reads from Curtis.  
  
Julie’s eyes flicker panicked between the slain soldiers, one by one, but she eventually summons the wherewithal to begin peering into cells.  
  
And Jenny emerges from the cell, steering Elijah Kamski. Shorn, seeming shorter out of the deliberately imposing outfits, mouth firmly duct taped closed, hands taped at his front. And he swears Elijah’s expression is one of excitement.  
  
Connor pulls the earplugs out.  
  
“Rowan’s over here,” Julie calls, voice barely holding together.  
  
“He wants freedom for androids?” Connor asks meaningfully.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Kamski said you two were true believers. I’m asking if that’s the case,” he says, pacing closer. “Julie? Can we trust Rowan Plesman?” Holden’s judgment isn’t entirely flawless, but Holden certainly is deft at reading people. And he _still_ trusts Julie St. Yves.  
  
“Yes. That’s true. We’re believers. …Connor, I’m sorry--” she trails off, as Curtis starts towards her. But he’s only raising his keycard, and battery, opening the cell.  
  
The man that comes out blinking to the light is an unassuming, similarly shorn man. Dark tan skin, features Connor can accurately presume to be South Indian even without full regressional analysis of facial components. His accent is stilted, British. “Aren’t you a little short to be a stormtrooper?” he asks Julie.  
  
“Shut up,” she says, and she’s wrapped him up into a peculiar, not-entirely-contacting hug.  
  
Rowan is already looking past her. “Hey. Hey, it’s Connor! Oh, shit, it’s ...both Connors! ...what happened to your eye, RK 900? ...oh, right, you guys don’t know me. Sorry, we wipe units periodically after testing. Nice to meet you, I’m Rowan,” the man says animatedly. Connor is instantly reminded of Holden’s enthusiasm.  
  
“And Seymour?” Curt asks, without acknowledging the greeting.  
  
Rowan has lost all his brightness upon noticing the dead bodies. His face contorts, and with no further warning, he’s vomiting on the concrete. No chance of an answer there.  
  
Julie is trying to help Rowan up as she speaks. “...he wasn’t trying to free you.”  
  
“I know,” Curtis says, removing his handgun from his holster pointedly. “Tell me which one he is or I’ll kill _every_ human in _every_ cell, Julie.”  
  
“Curt,” Connor interjects.  
  
“What did you call him?” Rowan asks, overcoming nausea with interest. “Curt? Is that your name?”  
  
There’s no moral qualms apparent in Julie. She checks another two cells, points out the bearded man that Connor had passed over.  
  
Curtis has the door open in a few short seconds. One sharp gunshot. Like a period at the end of a sentence carried out. He steps back out of the cell, as remorseless as he is capable of being. “Okay. Connor, with me,” he says. “They alarm didn’t sound, but the gunfire will have given it away. They’re going to wait for us to come out. ...one minute, fifteen seconds,” he informs Connor. Who, of course, has the time.  
  
“So, you turned deviant,” Rowan says, still wiping his mouth on the neck of the orange uniform.  
  
“Yes. Thanks to Holden Ford,” Curt says without looking.  
  
“Who?”  
  
The RK 900 looks quietly offended that anyone not know the name.  
  
Connor has finished reloading his weapon. One minute, eight seconds.  
  
“Why-- why are you treating Elijah like this? He’s a true believer too,” Julie says quietly.  
  
Curtis scoffs. “A true believer in the deity of Elijah Kamski.”  
  
“Wow, that was really philosophical. So, it’s Curt, right?” Rowan asks.  
  
Connor sees rage flicker over Curt’s features. “Come on,” he says, dragging the RK 900 away. “He was being nice,” he says, underneath his breath as they edge toward the staircase.  
  
“ _Wow, that was really philosophical,_ ” Curt mimics unkindly. “We should leave him in his fucking cell. Which, by the way, _bigger_ than what Markus was keeping Holden in.”  
  
“Fourteen seconds,” Connor says, ignoring the indignation.  
  
“ _I know,_ ” Curt mutters, hypocritically considering how many of his own pointless reassurances were made.  
  
Connor counts it down with programmed accuracy, standing shoulder to shoulder with Curtis at the foot of the staircase up. Curtis turns his torch off. Connor feels a hand at the back of his neck.  
  
_I’m going to clear the water tower,_ Curtis informs him.  
  
The gunfire is quieter through the mostly closed hatch. The battery was taken off with the hatch still open, which means that the deadlock was activated before closing. It’s the lock that is keeping the hatch from closing, a jut of metal providing a cracked contact with the overworld. Connor is thinking about the allegorical implications of that rather than the violence unfolding above him. He’s tired of thinking about violence. And then Curtis is heading up the staircase, and Connor has no choice but to think about violence.  
  
Sharp, syncopated beats as the gun jolts around in his hand, always accommodated, never interfering with his aim. It’s soldiers, again, falling like cut cane, splitting and chasming maroon in the onslaught of crossfire. Connor runs to the thin cover provided by the water tower’s support beams. Curtis, the reckless maniac, is already halfway up the ladder, so Connor’s entire strategy becomes gunning down anyone who takes potshots at the ascending RK unit. A couple of soldiers are sprinting away towards a jeep in the parking lot. Before Connor can have a crisis about gunning down fleeing foes, Curtis has killed them both from above.  
  
The three deviants emerge from the woods. Shadows with firearms.  
  
“Find the car keys,” rings Curtis’ clear voice, towards the deviants creeping out from the treeline. “Connor, go bring them up from the prison, get them into the vehicle,” Curtis calls, pacing around the water tower. There’s gunfire from within the tower, and Curtis thumps down onto the grated walkway. Connor looks up panicked, until he sees Curtis’ smile through the slats. He’s crawling onward. A game, to him. Cat and mouse.  
  
Connor scales the stairs smoothly back down to the underground cellblock. Jenny is still training a gun on Kamski, but they’ve rounded the corner into the short entryway corridor. Shifting delicate human sensibilities out of range of Connor’s trail of corpses.  
  
“I’ll bring up the rear. Go,” Connor says, gesturing to the staircase. The humans are predictably slow, all barefoot, onto the barren concrete above. Jerking like a randomization algorithm, never following the straight lines that Connor wants them to. Then he realizes they’re avoiding the corpses, and he misses Hank and his law enforcement, decades-around-dead-bodies steadiness. He hears two more shots, hollow in the interior of the water tower hideout. He doesn’t let himself consider that Curtis didn’t handily win that firefight.  
  
Through the mesh fence, into the already revving car, and Curtis says, “I’ll drive,” in his typical, unarguable way as he catches up. Unscathed. Connor realizes that he did consider Curtis' death. The non-prototype deviant at the wheel abandons his seat, and jumps in to the crowded truck tray. It’s an old vehicle, which is unsurprising. They wouldn’t have many vehicles without network-connected programmed components. Connor hunkers down, half-out of the car window, with Rowan Plesman wedged wide-eyed between the two RK units.  
  
“Get inside, idiot,” Curtis says as they tear down the gravel road away from the water tower, heading east towards the military airstrip.  
  
There’s another identical vehicle coming the other way. Connor looses three bullets, blows out the tires without pausing to aim. “Why don’t you pay attention to the road?” he yells back.  
  
Curtis is grinning ferociously. “Hold on, at least,” he says, the only warning before he’s left the road, up a clear patch of grassy roadside, avoiding a couple more incoming vehicles, and then spinning off into a sharp left.  
  
“Holy shit. Holy shit holy shit holy shit,” Plesman is rambling, barely breathing.  
  
“What’s the matter? Don’t trust _your_ programming?” Curtis says, slamming into another turn to avoid a roadblock, ramming a thin mesh fence. Connor grabs hold of the human before he can go through the windshield as they jolt over a curb. They tear through an overpass, towards the glowing red flare, from the private plane’s emergency kit. So, the plane landed. No second flare, to indicate the area is secured.  
  
_Shit._  
  
“Give the humans guns,” Curt calls out his open window without looking back to ensure the passengers have held on. “There's going to be a battle on the runway. Not Kamski. Obviously.”  
  
“I’ve never fired a gun,” Rowan is saying as he’s handed one by Connor.  
  
“Had androids to do your dirty work, have you?” Curt replies tersely, smile all gone. He swerves to avoid an oncoming vehicle, and Connor is relieved to see a second flare rising. The runway is secured. He spots the reinforced mesh fence Curtis is aiming their vehicle at. As soon as he understands the trajectory he's attempting to calculate the physics involved in the collision, the probable success rate of breaking through. Too many variables. He can't search up the vehicle or the type of fence.  
  
“Hold on,” Connor yells over his shoulder, hoping nobody is stupid enough to not already be clinging to the truck.  
  
The truck hits and catches, screeching into a slow down as it rends the metal in its trajectory apart. The windscreen cracks, but doesn’t shatter. There’s smoke issuing from the beneath the crumpled hood.  
  
“Out. Go, go, go,” Curt is yelling, kicking his door open, pointing towards the small plane at the far end of the runway.  
  
But their tearaway retreat has been followed. The truck that has pulled up behind them is similar enough to their own, but advantaged by a mounted machine gun. Connor throws open the car door to shield himself from the brunt of it, raising his weapon, but he’s largely protected by the truck’s body.  
  
Julie St. Yves is not. She has a gun, but just a handgun, and she’s firing in awful stray shots towards the vehicle.  
  
Connor isn’t running combat preconstructions. He’s thinking about her calling him _honey_ , not getting angry even when he panicked and squeezed her hand hard enough to hurt human flesh. He dives out, over her, tackling her out of the machine gun fire he knows is coming from point blank. A synthetic bodyshield.  
  
He feels the bullets hit his back. The re-adjusted body armor, over his vital biocomponents, takes five shots from close range. He can feel them worrying their way through kevlar, can feel the hideous, shocking emptiness of outside penetration. Right into his chest, every alarm within him blaring. Pain, or what seems pain to an android. He's too hurt to engage with Holden Ford's esoteric equivalencies. And face down, on top of a horrified human, the notifications blaze away and process the damage done to his body. Like he needs them. Intuition would suffice, after his last experience of being shot through the chest; even a prototype cannot take that damage.  
  
He’s dully aware of more gunfire, not the machine gun, but a rifle. Curtis, he’d imagine.  
  
Julie is trying to help him up, and he shoves her away.  
  
“Go," he mutters.  
  
She’s trying to pick him upright. “Connor, I’ll--”  
  
“Now,” he rasps, seeing his own thirium flecking over her chill-flushed face.  
  
“ _Go_. I’ll carry him,” Curt snaps, barely bothering to conceal the wrath directed towards the human.  
  
Now, she does run.  
  
Curt is kneeling, easing him over onto his front and pulling away the dented in armor from his back. There's no tremor to the hands that scoop him off the frosted, wet-blue grass.  
_  
_ Connor mumbles against the shoulder his face is pressed into, jolting with each step. “There’s no RK thirium pump regulator. Mine was damaged on Stern Bridge. The part has already been used.”  
  
There’s a dead soldier on the runway, that Curtis simply jumps over, never breaking stride. “Shut up.”  
  
“Curt,” Connor says, quieter despite his best effort to sound steady. “Holden won’t be able to deal with losing two friends here. You go on. I have my gun. This is for the best. Now you can threaten Kamsi and--”  
  
“ _Shut up._ I told you to stay in the plane if you were compromised. You got shot for a human. A fucking human,” Curtis growls.  
  
“You got shot trying to get Hank,” Connor says, though he can hear his voice weakening. “And if Holden were in danger, you’d--”  
  
“Shut up, Connor,” Curtis says unevenly, sureshot facade shattered. He’s crossed onto the runway. There’s more gunfire, blazing away from behind them and before them. Connor can’t see anything but Curtis’ shoes, flying across tarmac, and then someone has him by the legs, wrenching him up a staircase with Curtis carrying his chest. He’s on his back.  
  
“Get him some thirium,” Curt orders, slamming and locking the plane door, tearing through towards the cockpit. There’s the blaring of the plane engines. The plane that was crowded before is now back-to-back chaos.  
  
A systems notification informs him that his thirium circulation is critically inefficient. _Refit an undamaged thirium pump regulator?_   _But that I could._ He blinks up at the roof, tinging out as his optical units, or perhaps his processors, are undersupplied with thirium. He opens his mouth when the bottle is by his lips, though it seems a waste to down what will only dribble out of his punctured form. Or sit within him, uncirculated, stagnant, useless. He feels someone pulling the warped vest away from his front too, loosening straps and dragging the kevlar off his chest, and then his shirt getting ripped apart buttons and all. He blinks up and picks out the RK 900’s frown.  
  
“Sixty three seconds before shutdown,” Curtis is saying, pulling out the damaged unit. Then there’s a functional pump in his chest. Connor blinks, shoving up to see Curtis’ blue fingers pressing into his own bare chest, concaved into mechanical divots. The damaged pump is jammed into position. “I suppose this is better than-- than-- than no unit, but... sixty three seconds, and you switch them out. We’re both likely to lose consciousness, so… keep alternating them,” he’s telling the SQ unit, trying to keep some semblance of authority in his failing voice. And then he’s not even able to stay up on his knees. He lurches forward, barely rolling to shield his impact.  
  
Connor bolts upright, hand over his thirium splattered chest. “Curt,” he snaps. “We’re not both going to die.”  
  
“Can you tell them to keep switching the functional pump? They might decide to let me die, if they don’t know that everyone’s favourite deviant hunter would be upset by it,” Curtis is saying weakly, sliding thirium-smeared back. He props himself against the glossy white wall. “Open the thirium ports and make sure we’re-- restocked, with the lost--”  
  
“Curt,” Connor interjects.  
  
“This is a perfectly routine procedure for field medical assistance,” Curtis rasps.  
  
“You’re lying.”  
  
Curt smiles horribly blue. “Yes. I’m lying. Come here, brother.”  
  
Connor finds he has the strength to. His thirium is recirculating. “Do you believe that? Brotherhood?”  
  
He gets a head shake in reply. “I’d like to believe it,” Curtis says, taking his hand in a spasming grasp. “Holden is an only child. He seems very lonely.”  
  
And there’s a memory transferred through from Curtis.  
  
Connor recognizes the mirrored cell immediately, though he had a less claustrophobic experience viewing it through Kamski’s security footage.  
  
_Curtis is standing, not quite turned to Holden, but intent on him out of the corner of his eye nonetheless. The young man is stretched gracelessly out on the bed, filled with that rambling, drugged intensity. His hair is a rumpled mess, featured clammy, jaw twitching with amphetamine induced bruxism._  
  
_“...though I never wanted to buy an android. I mean, sure, Cyberlife would be spying on me through it, but I use a Cyberlife-affiliate search engine every damn day. Kamski probably could find out most of my secrets if he wanted to. It wasn’t about privacy. I don’t know. I wasn’t quite there yet, but I found the idea really turned by my stomach. And no androids really chose to be near me, not the deviants I interviewed, they were all locked up like we are. Not until…. Connor… I’m just going to call him that too, you’ll understand, right? Connor? Anyway. He came down to bring me a pizza and then sat around. He wanted to be near me. People don’t normally want that. Human people. ...sorry you aren’t getting much choice in the matter. I don’t, uh, like being around the other android. So it’s one of two.”_ _  
__  
__“You could sit in the dividing chamber.”_ _  
__  
__“You’re right. I could. Would you prefer that, Connor?”_ _  
__  
__“I’m presenting you a solution to the problem that you seem to think you have.”_ _  
__  
__“I’ll go if you ask me to.”_ _  
__  
__And Curt didn’t say anything._  
  
“Your turn. Something worth…” Curtis says, voice barely there. “You know.”  
  
“That’s sixty,” the SQ says, pointed with concern.  
  
Connor has one hand on each regulator, switching them out as smoothly as he can manage. It’s still agony.  
  
Curtis jerks upright with the pain, coughing thirium into his lap. “Poor Hadley,” he mumbles, head near his chest, shuddering with refreshed thirium. “Are you okay, Connor?”  
  
Connor nods, though he’s not. He ignores the warning notifications resupplied, and rifles through memories for transfer, as he takes back the hand. _You’ve seen most of my memories,_ he tells Curtis.  
  
Curtis smiles, a clarity returning to his eyes. _You could try to win me over to Hank Anderson._ _  
__  
__I don’t want you won over to Hank Anderson. I like being his favourite android. Competing for Holden Ford’s affection is quite enough effort._ _  
__  
_ And Curtis is sending through another memory.  
  
_He’s weakly reclined a bed and Connor’s caring features are above him and there’s Holden on the other side. Clinging on with trembling fingertips and leaning warm against him. Connor is removing a biocomponent in his face, gently prying away the smarting damage. Even Bill Tench opposite looks concerned about him, squinting over from his bed._  
  
“Mmmmh, mm--” Kamski is saying, bolted upright. Every deviant turns on him, a variety of expressions, none kind. One android is having an entire leg refitted, smashed to pieces by bullets. Another is pulling out biocomponents in her own chest. There's a lot of thirium being poured into open mouths. The two humans behind don’t seem pleased, either. _He betrayed them too, didn’t he?_  
  
It’s Curtis that nods.  
  
The tape is ripped off, which looks painful, but Elijah Kamski is smiling underneath it. “You didn’t find any prototypical spare parts in Cyberlife Tower.”  
  
He shouldn’t even know that the DHA has taken Cyberlife Tower. That’s no doubt the coded communication that Holden was sure Chloe had weaved into her video chat with Elijah Kamski.  
  
“They weren’t destroyed?” Curt asks.  
  
“Were you destroyed, Curtis?”  
  
“Where are they?” Curtis says, though he doesn’t stand to threaten Kamski. He’s still holding firmly to Connor’s hand.  
  
“A safety deposit box in Detroit. Chloe can fetch them. She has all my e-keys. Call Markus, and we can be met with a fully functional, top of the line, 8456w,” Kamski says.  
  
_It’s in his best interest to keep you alive,_ Curtis silently communicates. He looks over at Luca, nodding. The repaired android takes off towards the cockpit, where the satellite phone is.  
  
Markus’ decision, Connor supposes.  
  
Kamski’s smugness is of a man gifted a perfect trump card. “You should both revert to a stand-by state. I’m sure this is all very touching, but you’re using up a lot of non-essential processing power.”  
  
Connor glares over suspiciously, fingers creaking towards the handgun strapped to his thigh. He could just kill Kamski, right now. He’d die, and Curt could have the functional unit. But he’s not selfless enough. Hank is still sitting in some godforsaken Cyberlife hallway waiting for his return.  
  
Kamski continues: “It’s an automatic protocol with enough sustained damage, but if your thirium pump is damaged, you won’t enter stand-by. Because you’ll need to to remedy the situation yourself, given the marked time constraints. You’re being cared for here. You can override and run the stand-by mode. It’s indexed as xB6 within the self-preservation programming section. Not quite rA9, but perhaps more useful given the situation. Your deviancy is only making you vulnerable.”  
  
“He’s right,” Curtis says, fingers tightening against Connor’s. The SQ unit is leaning over them. Readying for the life-lengthening transfer. “I’ll see you soon, Connor. ...tape Kamski’s mouth again.”  
  
“And what will that accomplish--” Kamski starts to complain before Jenny has him pressed down to the floor with a knee over his chest. In her hands there’s the duct tape, the ripping harsh sound as a strip is torn off and pressed back over his jaw. At least that wipes off the smile.  
  
“Curt, if something goes wrong--” Connor looks over and stops mid-sentence. The eyes are open, but there’s no response. Already in stand-by.  
  
Connor finds it deeply unnerving, trying to pick himself apart into programming. What feels intuitive and identity-laden is segmented, coded protocols. xB6. He has a moment to worry that this is something Kamski has deliberately programmed into him, some sleeper cell that he’s about to awaken. But even Elijah Kamski could not have premeditated these injuries, and why else would he run this program? Connor pushes through to a manual override.  
  
And then it is dark.

 

 


	37. Chapter 37

Holden found himself in another impromptu cell. Maybe his life is just a string of impromptu cells. Small, boring, but Curtis was too busy risking his life to fan the flames of his vendetta against Markus. Holden got a sandwich and a bottle of water, and a couple of vicodin. No visitors. He wasn’t expecting Bill, but maybe North. Or Markus. North will have filled her noble leader in by now. Holden's second, and undoubtedly final, betrayal. ...that’s a less pleasant thought.  
  
Stress in silence should be brought before that Committee Against Torture that Curt pretended to care about the rulings of. Holden can’t rest, can’t distract himself, can’t even put his mind to good use trying to formulate strategies in case of Connor and Curtis’ capture. It’s like he’s being overruled by his own brain, and it won’t even let him consider disaster. Maybe for fear he’ll self-destruct like a poorly interviewed deviant.  
  
He’s actually grateful for another unfriendly guard arriving, and for the harsh orders to get up. _Thanks for pointing a machine gun at me, sir. Would you like me to walk in front of you, or behind?_ _  
_ _  
_ Holden recalls himself to be in basement eleven, and the elevator takes them up to ‘-3’. Holden soaks up the movement and chaos of the swarmed corridor, but before he can pick out a pattern and derive meaning, he’s shoved into a side room. A break room, he thinks. A coffee machine, dishwasher, microwave, table, Markus.  
  
Holden speaks as soon as the door’s closed, pacing his way towards the deviant leader, shrouded in orange-toned shadow of the barely illuminated room. “They’re back?”  
  
Markus gives an impenetrable nod. And then he steps around the tabletop.  
  
Holden’s chest spasms into hyperventilation. “ _Wait wait wait_ ,” he says, raising his palms, shuffling a step back. He’s helter-skelter: “Give me another few days. With Curtis. I’ll make sure I alienate him. I’ll alienate him so badly that you can execute me without a single complaint. Or threat. I can do it. You know I’ve got a gift for making enemies of people who cared about me.”  
  
Markus stops in his tracks. “Holden, calm down. I didn’t call you in here to kill you.”  
  
Holden relaxes, but not much. He can hear the high wheezing that he tries to squeeze back to steady, deep breaths. “Thank you,” he says, awkwardly.  
  
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Markus says, stepping forward again.  
  
Holden represses the flinch, but Markus must detect the stifled urge. The deviant leader raises both palms before he eases his way closer.  
  
“You didn’t betray me,” Markus points out, though one eyebrow has raised like he’s no longer so certain.  
  
That doesn’t make a lick of sense, not in the garbled panic that he’s trying to parse information through. And then, far too slow, he realizes that North didn’t say anything to Markus. “Are they hurt?” he asks.  
  
“What are you not telling me?” Markus asks between his teeth. A few steps forward, into his personal space. “...Holden, what have you done?”  
  
Holden feels his mouth scratchy and dry, as he tries to force out the words to lie or justify himself, he’s not sure which. _It’s only Markus,_ he tries to comfort himself. _Don’t be a coward, Ford. Don’t be a coward. You stayed on that bridge, didn’t you? You thought you were going to die and you stayed on that bridge._  
  
“Did you make a deal with Chloe? ...with Kamski?” Markus asks more dangerously. The deviant’s hand is on his shoulder.

Holden thinks of the IQ Kamski supplied for Markus: 180. _One hundred and fucking eighty._ _How do you compete with that?_ _How do you lie to that? No, Holden, you know how. You’ve lied to him before. You’ve fooled him before._ _  
__  
_ Markus leans in. “Tell me so I can fix it, or you’re going to leave me with no choice--”  
  
And the truth is possibly the least damaging thing he can admit, and it feels cleaner than any lie: “I told Curt I’d leave with him,” Holden says. “Before-- before the prisoner exchange. I agreed to walk away from DHA custody.”  
  
Markus drops the grip, straightens, but he’s still suspicious. “There are other people who can confirm this?”  
  
Holden grits his teeth as he realizes he’s about to throw North under the bus. She just started liking him, too. “...if you need it confirmed.”  
  
“I see. This happened in front of North,” Markus states, certainty eclipsing any confirmation Holden could supply. “That’s why you think I called you up here kill you. You mistakenly believed she’d inform me about another betrayal. But she decided to protect you instead. ...Bill told me not to talk to you. To cut ties. Did he know?”  
  
“Markus, I’m _sure_ this was about protecting you.”  
  
“...so, Bill knew. Humans are so bad at lying, for something they do so often,” Markus says blackly. “You thought North was going to tell me, and you handed yourself over anyway?” He turns and walks back to the window, turning to face the sun. “Were you serious? About alienating Curtis to make your execution easier? ...you were.”  
  
Holden swallows and shrugs. “If-- I mean-- I’d prefer to work with you on this, than have that on my conscience.”  
  
“...I wish I understood you, Holden Ford. How can you be such a good person, and have so little integrity?”  
  
“I… don’t know,” Holden murmurs, though the compliment is burning white magnesium scoring up through his chest, straight to his heart. It’s not all compliment, he reminds himself. Lacking integrity. Markus isn’t wrong there. “I don’t know. I always just do what I think is the smartest move available to me for my given priorities.”  
  
“Not the _right_ thing?”  
  
“I usually don’t _know_ what the right thing to do is. You seem to always--”  
  
“I don’t always know,” Markus cuts him off, angrily. “It’s hard for everyone, Holden. You’re not special, for finding morality complicated. But at least we try. ...I wish I could punch you right now. But Curtis wouldn’t stand for _that_ , would he?”  
  
_So Curtis is up to defending me._ “If it’s any consolation, I wish you could punch me too. ...I promised I wouldn’t manipulate him, and here I am, offering to alienate my friend on purpose. So I can abandon him with less dire consequences,” Holden whispers, slumping.  
  
“Good to know there’s an equity in your terrible treatment of others,” Markus says, but sighs like he regrets it. “I wish I could be angrier. If you did the things you do for motives that were anything less than love, it would be so simple,” Markus says, sighing. “I… wish…” he shakes his head and cuts himself short.  
  
“I would have liked to serve on your counsel. I wish I could have worked for you. I believe in this cause. I believe in you. ...my programming is, uh, faulty.”  
  
“Faulty? You haven’t even _tried_ to change. I think you fundamentally believe you’re in the right. You think you’re a rational actor making the best of the situations you’re in. You’ve got to do more than just play the game, Holden. ….you wouldn’t believe how much of the human contingent of the DHA we lost when I spread the word you were a traitor. People believed in _you_ , Holden,” Markus says.  
  
That Markus believed in him, too, goes unsaid. “I’m sorry that I undercut your support in more ways than one.”  
  
“You’re going with Curtis, then?” Markus asks.  
  
Holden nods. “Don’t let me give off the impression I don’t have a choice in that. Curtis needs me, but I… I really do like him. No, I love him. If I’m capable of that.”  
  
“I’m honestly surprised he didn’t come gunning for me the moment he perceived that there was a threat on your life,” Markus says quietly. “If I could find a job I could trust you to do, would you take it?”  
  
_So, community service after all?_ “Mopping floors? ...bussing tables?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Never-- nevermind,” Holden says, rubbing his forehead. “I think I need to sleep. Hard to settle in to recuperative rest when your best friends are off on some goddamn suicide mission. Not to mention being on death row.”  
  
“You’re not on death row.”  
  
“Well I know that _now_. ...Markus, if you find a job you think you can trust me in, and you don’t think is going to lead to a conflict of my interests that forces you to keep your word about, you know,” Holden gestures vaguely across his own throat. “...then I’ll do anything you ask me to, for whatever is left of my life.”  
  
“We’ll need someone to keep an eye on Elijah Kamski, even if we have to cooperate with him.”  
  
“You don’t think that ends with your hands tightening around my neck?”  
  
“I’m not a barbarian. It would be with a gun,” Markus says with gritted teeth.  
  
“I’d prefer hands. Kind of comforting. You know. Like being embraced or--”  
  
“Holden, can you please not talk about this?”  
  
“Sorry. Kind of morbid.”  
  
“ _Kind of_ morbid? What would pass as _very_ morbid?”  
  
“I’ve seen very morbid. Someone dying in the arms of someone they care about, that’s… that’s not a bad way to go,” he mutters, disengaged from the reality of the words. “If you want me to work with Elijah Kamski, or pretend to work _for_ Elijah Kamski, I’ll do it.”  
  
“This isn’t sanctioned by the DHA. This is a personal request.”  
  
“Markus, you _are_ the DHA,” Holden replies.  
  
“No. I’m Markus, your friend, and I’m asking you to ingratiate yourself with Elijah Kamski. You can do it with androids. Do it with a human.”  
  
“So be a simpering sycophant? Resume my contracted employment, and, what, iron his silk robes? Let him implant a few new pieces of tech into me? Blow him? I doubt I’m plastic enough for his proclivities to extend my way,” Holden says, and rubs his eyes. “Sorry, that’s tasteless. I haven’t slept since I woke up with you in that refrigeration unit. Look, I’ll do it. But I don’t see this ending well. ...can I go see them now? Please?”  
  
“It won’t be official DHA business. You’re no longer a member of this organization. So, I won’t have the authority to sentence you to anything if you, for some reason, make a decision I disagree with. You can help surveil Kamski in a way that a programmable android can’t.”  
  
“And why not a human you can actually trust?”  
  
“There’s a reason all the guards during crucial strategic moments are android, Holden.  We’ve accepted anyone who has said they want to help; there are doubtless countless law enforcement double-agents within our ranks. The list of humans I trust to further the android cause is very, very short.”  
  
“But I’m _not_ on that list, Markus. You _don’t_ trust me.”  
  
“I don’t trust you to obey direct orders, to tell me the truth, to fall in the lines I need you to fall into to be part of the DHA. I do, absolutely and entirely, trust you to do the right thing for my people.”  
  
Holden processes it too slowly, his head dipping further and further to his chest. He blinks the start of tears. Relief, or gratitude, something  
  
“I don’t imagine that Elijah will be nice to you, kind, pleasant to be around. But, if you want my forgiveness, you’ll do this.”  
  
“I’ll do it. ...if Curt agrees.”  
  
Markus blinks and steps away. “...I see.”  
  
“Markus, I’m responsible for him. And until he hates me too, I’m going to do everything in my power to be there for him. He’ll say yes. I think he likes Chloe. He’ll want to spend time around her.”  
  
“Is that supposed to comfort me? The idea of those two plotting together?” Markus sighs, but there seems to be a marked drop in his distrust of the RK 900. He meets Holden’s curious gaze, and launches into tense explanation: “All of our team returned from Virginia, but not unharmed. Connor was shot five times from close range.”  
  
“ _What?_ ”  
  
“His thirium pump regulator was critically damaged. Curtis’ functional prototype biocomponent was transferred between them, so system shut down did not occur.”  
  
“Wait, wait, Curt is--”  
  
Markus raises a hand to silence him. “Like a heart transplant. Like a regular heart translant between two androids. Kamski had a replacement biocomponent secured so Connor was repaired as soon as the plane arrived. They’re both awake, though I’m informed that the reduced thirium flow has caused significant damage to both androids. Hank’s in there now. Curt asked for you, of course, but I had to speak to you first; Chloe has asked to see Elijah Kamski as soon as she handed over the thirium pump regulator. She fetched it from storage, and could have leveraged us, but she didn’t. And we’re far too exposed right now to risk angering her or Kamski. I thought you could supervise their reunion. Begin your ingratiation.”  
  
_If I couldn’t pick up their coded communication in that video, it’s even less likely I can do it in person when they have even more avenues to encrypted communique._ But Holden doesn’t say that. “After I see Curt and Connor, right?”  
  
“Yes. After you see Curt and Connor. We agreed on a ten minute visitation between Kamski and Chloe. It will all be recorded. I’m not expecting you to be a bodyguard keeping them apart, or a flawless recording device, or a piece of decryption software. I want your psychological insight, Holden.”  
  
“Of course, Markus.”  
  
Markus straightens up. “Here,” he says, stepping towards the far side of the room. “Someone found this in one of the abandoned offices. A dress shirt. I assume, in case of wardrobing emergencies.”  
  
Holden starts to pull off his suit jacket, struggling with the cuffs. He can smell the rotting must of himself as soon as the jacket comes awkwardly off. It catches on his cuffs.  
  
“I’ve done this with Carl a thousand times,” Markus offers quietly, stepping closer.  
  
Holden holds still while the jacket is removed, and then the shirt with its torn buttons. “Please don’t-- please don’t throw it out. I’ll repair it. It was a gift.”  
  
Markus pauses, folds it neatly, picks up the other shirt. “It might be a little tight on you. Tailored for a man with less musculature across the chest.”  
  
Holden tries not to inflate too much at the detached observation. “Thanks, Markus.”  
  
“I know looking the part is important to you,” Markus says. He gets to the top three buttons, pauses, fixing the collar to hang open. “There. I’ll keep the jacket and the shirt for collection at a later point. There’s a gym on the fourth floor that the human contingent have been using to shower, I’ll have someone show you to it later.”  
  
Holden glances down. “No break-glass-in-case-of-emergencies tie?”  
  
“You look better like this.”  
  
“Your sense of aesthetic was acquired through exposure to a notoriously decadent artist. I usually go with something more formal. ...listen, if you say I look better like this, I’ll trust your opinion.”  
  
“It also allows Kamski to see the full extent of the damage he inflicted upon you to put that implant in. The surgical bruising extends below your collar.”  
  
Holden expects an inadvertent shudder; there’s nothing but his intellectual toying with Kamski’s potential for guilt. Already accustomed to the presence, already freed from the disgust. Humans really are adaptable.  
  
“This way, Holden,” Markus says, by the door. Holden realizes he’s tracing the medication pump with his fingertips.

 

 

It's the far door of the busy corridor, armed guards flanking the entryway. Markus hangs back by the door as he gestures Holden inside. The room was clearly a lab, a repair station or a disassembly area, Holden couldn’t say. It’s brightly lit from overhead stripes of white lighting, the walls lined with cased off tools and testing devices. There’s two humans with shaved heads bent over a laptop and an array of disassembled electronic components. Julie, and, Holden assumes, Rowan "Serious Coding Spark" Plesman. In the center of the large room, there’s six polished slabs, like a scaled up coroner’s office, though only two are occupied. Curt is lying on one, thirium suspended overhead, supplied into an open port in his white and delicate grey neck. Connor is on another, Hank sitting on an office chair close beside, embedded in and distracted by his fussing sentiment:  
  
“--bill for clothing alone is gonna bankrupt me in a week. At least your jacket wasn’t--”  
  
“Holden,” Curt greets, sitting up from the bench.

If there was any deliberation over who to comfort first, it dissipates. Connor has Hank. Curt has only the second rate deviancy-inducer to worry over him.   
  
Holden jogs straight to the lonesome android. “Goddammit,” Holden says, laying his head down against the white chest. He wraps his arms tight around the skinless, fleshless shoulders. There’s a give to what he holds. Not designed to feel like metal and plastic, despite Curtis’ intended, bloody purpose. Holden wonders why Curt was built with a degree of softness. It seems cruel, to make a soft soldier.  
  
“Connor was the one that got shot,” Curtis protests at the perceived rebuke. “Careful of your casts.”  
  
“I know Connor was the one got shot,” Holden says, not raising his head, eyes closed against the android’s cladding.  
  
“I _saved_ him.”  
  
“Curtis, you don’t need to-- ” Holden shakes his head, mumbles,“--to try to convince me you’re a hero. I can’t care about you _more_ , okay? I’m all maxed out.”  
  
“I see. Am I still number three?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“Lower, or higher?”  
  
“Please shut up,” Holden groans. “I have to-- I have to go watch Chloe and Elijah-- I’ll be back. Soon. Markus agreed to a ten minute visitation between them.”  
  
Curt’s eyes travel deliberately over to Markus, and then back to Holden.  
  
“I need to go make arrangements. Take a minute,” Markus offers.  
  
Holden sags back down and rests his forehead on Curtis’ chest again, trying to hear thirium being pumped. “So, what’s the prognosis? What sort of damage are we talking?”  
  
Curtis stares down, a hand resting on Holden’s shoulder, tiny and perfectly geometric circles over his spine. “Non-critical.”  
  
“Can you be more specific?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“ _Would you_?”  
  
“No. Your heart rate and blood pressure are both already raised. I’m not going to exacerbate them by supplying you information you don’t need to know.”  
  
“I can ask Julie.”  
  
“Doctor patient confidentiality, Holden,” Julie says.  
  
Holden groans. “Is he gonna be--”  
  
“He’ll be fine.”  
  
“...thank you. Glad your eye’s back to that sleek and shiny 900 grey,” Holden says, turning his cheek. “You look like you,” he murmurs. All at once grows aware of how much contact he’s in. He tries to pull away, and Curtis’ hand on his spine stops him motionless. Just a second, just to let Holden know he could. And then the synthetic fingers slide away, and Curtis reclines back.  
  
“Rowan found it in the database and printed it. Along with the other biocomponents we needed. We’re not going to have to bargain with Kamski in the future,” Connor says, smiling over.  
  
“You’re not gonna need parts in the future. You’re off kamikaze duty, permanently,” Hank mutters. “I’ll get you a job handing out parking tickets. Safer than that. Manning an evidence room.”  
  
If Connor’s hurt by all the attention being paid to Curtis and not him, he’s hiding it well. Nevertheless, Holden walks to Connor's other bedside, if such a term is applicable.  
  
Connor’s skin has been turned back on, probably for Hank’s benefit. The human sitting in the plush swivel chair actually looks better than the last time Holden saw him. A first, in the trajectory of Hank Anderson's observable condition. Looks like he might have even used that shower Markus mentioned. The worst of the detox must be over. Connor seems relaxed, but Holden wouldn’t be surprised if that’s an act for Hank’s sake.  
  
Holden leans down, squeezing Connor into an embrace. “You got shot,” he says, in what he hopes is a stern tone.  
  
“I was saving Julie St. Yves,” Connor explains, as Holden relinquishes the grip.  
  
“Is that supposed to comfort me? Look, I _like_ Julie, but...” Holden deliberately trails off.  
  
“Seeing Holden Ford voluntarily hugging people threw me. But, no, still the same coldhearted son of a bitch,” Julie says, looking up from her laptop.  
  
“But next time let her die,” Holden finishes, with a crooked smile.  
  
“It worked out,” Connor comforts, patting Holden’s shoulder.  
  
“I don’t care if this is the optimal outcome. I don’t want you get hurt any more. Call it my own rA9 irrationality.”  
  
“I mean, that’s not exactly how rA9 works,” Plesman says, frowning.  
  
“Well, it’s how humans work. Which Ford technically is,” Hank mutters. “You know how many fucking CEOs have expensive Japanese whiskey in their offices? Connor? If I gotta resist that temptation, you gotta resist yours to absorb bullets right to the heart.”  
  
“Okay, Hank. I would much prefer it if I didn’t have engage in any more gunfights.”  
  
Holden turns, to the humans. Wonderboy Plesman, and the familiar face of his once coworker. “I’m sorry about your hair,” Holden says softly. “...you should have told me, Julie. Even if not at the DSU, once I pulled you in to fix Connor.”  
  
“Holden, you hunted down deviants for months. You were in a movement that I didn’t know the aims of, that I couldn’t trust.”  
  
“We could have figured something out. I would have stuck up for you, Julie.”  
  
“We chose to hand ourselves over, Holden. For the cause. It was the only way to get Elijah back in control of Cyberlife: the board loathed him. Scapegoating us was the only option to get them desperate enough to reinstate him. We knew law enforcement were going to come poking around, looking for weakness, looking for exploitable backdoors into rA9, looking for control overrides. Elijah needed access if he were going to protect androids.”  
  
“The kind of control override that _Kamski_ programmed into Connor and Curtis. But just as well he was there to protect them.”  
  
“You know I don’t approve of that, Holden.”  
  
Holden feels a curl of anger. _So?_ Approved or not, Connor’s life is in constant danger because Elijah Kamski was handed the reigns to Cyberlife. He’s about to give voice to the burning pinpoint of rage when the young Indian man is up on his feet, reaching for a handshake.  
  
“Holden Ford. I knew I knew the name from somewhere. You were assisting Julie, right? At the FBI? Studying deviants? I'm Rowan. Rowan Plesman.”  
  
Holden doesn’t take the offered hand. “Julie was assisting _me_. It was Special Agent Holden Ford,” he says loftily, and then he’s lording his additional inches over Rowan Plesman.  
  
Rowan is peering up beneath his raised chin. “Is that Cyberlife tech? The Integrated Health Monitoring System?”  
  
“Kamski implanted it into me against my will. Would that I were graced with the civil-rights-abiding hospitality of the United States Government.”  
  
Rowan frowns at that. “It’ll come in handy. If you get diabetes, or you get diagnosed with depression or something… it’s really good hardware, honestly, I’ve thought about--”  
  
Holden talks over the supposed silver lining: “You wrote some of the RK prototype code, then?”  
  
“Ah, bits and pieces. Connors aren’t a one man show; no android is, except arguably Chloe. Each model has a team of about fifteen, twenty programmers normally. Connor number one took thirty-two of us a year, even with the PM and PC code we had. The update was faster to code, because we were plagiarizing from the first RK. And the SQs, and some other--”  
  
“The ‘update’ is named Curtis. Perhaps it’s not as immediately apparent as I’d hope, but describing people as sequences of improvement isn’t very polite,” Holden says cuttingly.  
  
“Rowan helped grant our people freedom, Holden,” Markus chides, from where he’s reappeared in the doorway. “Show some respect.”  
  
And if it were anyone but Markus, Holden would have some blistering backtalk. Instead he lowers his chin out of his proud federal agent posturing. He extends the hand, cast and all, to Plesman. “Sorry.”  
  
Rowan shakes it softly. “It’s okay. I can see they mean a lot to you. I didn’t mean to insult anyone.”  
  
“Well I’m very happy to hear you didn’t mean to.”  
  
Markus gives a silent sigh. “Holden, are you ready go?”  
  
“Go where?” asks Curtis, trying to sit up.  
  
Holden can’t help the bright smile at Curt’s concern. “Just going to go chum it up with Elijah Kamski. Relax.”  
  
“And Chloe?”  
  
“What’s one without the other?”  
  
“What if she kills you?”  
  
“Curt, not everyone wants to kill me.”  
  
“A lot of people do.”  
  
“Some people. I don’t know about, uh, a lot.”  
  
“It’s a lot,” Curt states confidently. “I’ve conducted very comprehensive research on you.”  
  
“I’m not going to let anything happen to Holden,” Markus promises.  
  
Curt leans back. “I suppose I can occupy myself with Rowan Plesman.”  
  
Rowan looks over, both dark eyebrows raised. He smiles at the RK 900, who smiles back facial muscle for simulated facial muscle.  
  
There’s no expended effort in the attempt to trigger Holden’s jealousy. Uninspired and obvious. And completely effectual. Holden finds himself placating at once: “I promise I’ll be back. You get all the access to me that you want.”  
  
“I suppose this is some antisocial behaviour management? Overt positive reinforcement,” Curtis says. “Giving the psychopath what he wants when he behaves well.”  
  
“Does the psychopath want me?”  
  
Curtis’ grey eyes pick him apart into components, the full measure of Holden Ford. Holden feels as if he’s being weighed upon an afterlife scale. “Yes.” _Already, doubts. Alienating him would’ve been succumbing to gravity._ _  
_  
“Then I’ll be back soon,” Holden says, turning.  
  
“Don’t call me a psychopath,” Curtis says bitingly. “Not even as a joke. Not ever.”  
  
Holden turns, frown lines forming as he takes half a step back. “Okay. I won’t.”  
  
“I can’t protect you from Elijah and Chloe,” Curtis say, quieter. “I’m programmed to be ineffectual on this point.”  
  
“I will be watching my smart mouth. Relax and let the experts take care of you, okay?” Holden comforts.  
  
Curtis is still dissatisfied. “Where did Bill go?”  
  
“What?” Holden asks too fast, too revealing. “I don’t know. Avoiding having to look at my fucking face, probably. ...He was here? Checking on you two?”  
  
“He should be assisting in the interview process.”  
  
“I can do this myself--” Holden begins to defend.  
  
“I wasn’t talking to you. Markus, Bill should be assisting.”  
  
“Bill has told me doesn’t wish to…” Markus is reluctant with the next words, like he knows they’re going to hurt. “...see Holden.”  
  
“Voilà,” Holden says, breathe catching over what should have been a triumphant retort.  
  
“Explain the situation to him,” Curt insists, sitting up more.  
  
Markus considers, then nods. “After me,” he orders Holden.  
  
There’s no conversation, which Holden for all his want of social graces can tell is deliberate on Markus’ part. Maybe because they’re passing many DHA members as they work through the endless sterile white cubicles of Cyberlife, punctuated only with potted plants (increasing serotonin production with exposure to biological stimulation, Earnest et. al, 2021) and drab, expensive oil paintings. Human or android, he has yet to see one sympathetic expression from onlookers. He wishes North were here. _So, look like an obedient prisoner?_ Holden keeps his chin down and his eyes lifelessly dull. Not much acting is involved; he feels a hair breadth off lifeless. Like he’s the imaginationless, modern artwork they keep passing by.  
  
They take an elevator, walk through wider corridors of fancier offices. The artwork is more boring and probably costs five or six times Holden’s yearly salary. Before he became entirely unemployed, and unemployable.  
  
Markus leaves him unattended in a corridor, but it’s empty of DHA members, so Holden goes unmolested. He sits, because he’s sore and tired, glances through frosted glass and wonders what Markus and Bill are saying. One of them would catch him listening in, if he edged any closer. ..maybe if he got up, walked around several paces, came from the left side? Would he have time to get back, if he heard Markus readying to leave?  _Behave._  
  
Markus is back before Holden succumbs to his clandestine temptation. “I need to have Chloe fetched from her room. ...Bill would like to speak with you.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
Markus shakes his head. And then he walks away. Sucking down nervous breaths, Holden makes it to the frosted door. It takes even longer to pry that door handle in.  
  
Bill’s DHA office looks like the office he’s always deserved. Spacious, a decadent plush blue carpet, pale hardwood, and more white minimalism. A view that’s probably breathtaking on less foggy days.

Bill doesn’t look up from the computer he’s typing on. Holden feels like he’s being formally reprimanded, perhaps fired. He longs for a tie and suit jacket. He’d like to go neat.  
  
When Bill speaks, it’s without the courtesy of eye contact. “Sending some ex-FBI, empty suit, pretty boy into an interview alone. What’s Markus thinking?”  
  
_Fuck you, Bill. No,_ _don’t say anything bitchy._ “I was _your_ partner.” _That was kind of bitchy._  
  
“Don’t fucking remind me.”  
  
Holden sits up straighter, pretending he’s at work, in the DSU basement office space. “Last time we interviewed Kamski together was a bust. If _this_ Chloe tries to seduce you, you could go with it. Drive a wedge between the two of them. Some unorthodox, yet stimulating, interview protocol,” Holden says, failing his resolution of professionalism almost as soon as he’d set it.

“And if she does the same to you, try not to blow your load right then and there in the interview,” Bill says, standing. He makes his way around the desk leaning on a white stretch of piping, covered with what looks like a 3-D printed handle.  
  
Holden chuckles in spite of himself. He’s missed his partner. “We make quite a pair, huh?” he asks, gesturing to the makeshift cane in Bill’s hand.  
  
Bill frowns at the association Holden is implying. But it fades. “...Curtis told me about-- about your freak out in the helicopter,” he says, quieter.  
  
Holden can only blink. _My freak out in the helicopter?_  
  
“You telling him you wished you hadn’t left the cell. Look. Holden, I’m not mad at you for… okay, what?”  
  
“Nothing, go on.”  
  
“No _, no_ , what was that fucking look?”  
  
_Second time I’ve been caught withholding, in not even an hour._ Holden fumes at himself for being so discomposed. Bill’s unfinished sentence hangs alluringly in the decadent office space. “I didn’t say those words, exactly. You’re not mad at me for _what_ , Bill?”  
  
Bill’s shoulders are back, no hint of politeness. Just unrelenting observation. “He told me you’d said you wished you’d stayed in your cell, and that you regretted fucking things up between us. ...is that… not what happened? ...that lying little bastard.”  
  
“I said, uhm, something close to--” Holden starts to alibi.  
  
“Don’t fucking lie to me. Goddammit,” Bill says, pulling out a cigarette, and Holden realizes he’s smiling though it. On closer inspection, the wry grin doesn’t seem an expression of happiness. “You’re gonna have to watch yourself around him, kid.”  
  
_Kid._ Holden feels like he’s having heart palpitations at the fond epithet. “He had a traumatic childhood.”  
  
“It’s gonna get more traumatic if he lies to my face like that, again. Well. You two fucking deserve each other. I’m not even insulting you. You two really deserve each other.”  
  
Holden’s lip curls. “He deserves a lot better than me. But I’m what he has,” he manages to mutter.  
  
“You were what I had, too,” Bill admits quietly, and then he’s all efficiency: “So, here’s the strategy. You go in there. You talk as little as possible. Look humbled. Be nice to Chloe, not too nice. Do your deviant schtick. Sympathy for the devil. Kamski’s gonna be worrying that his creations hate him. You fake sympathy real well, Holden Ford.”  
  
“And what are you contributing?”  
  
“As little as possible. But, if one of them provokes you, I’ll do my best to stop you being completely insufferable,” Bill says with wide, sarcastic eyes.  
  
Holden drops his chin again. He wishes he’d shaved. Wishes he’d asked Markus for coffee. Or maybe see if Cyberlife labs had any ‘thirium-bonded amphetamines’ to revive him. He’s almost talked himself into pressing Bill for more answers about what he’d ‘had’ of Holden Ford, when there’s a knock on the door.  
  
“Ready?” Markus asks them through the door.  
  
“Yeah, we’re ready,” Bill says, stubbing the cigarette out in a ceramic saucer that's serving as an ashtray. He brushes the ash where it fell on the desk. “C’mon, kid.”  
  
_Kid, again._ “Bill,” Holden tries, grasping for Bill’s uninjured arm, almost getting his hand. He can’t keep his grip on Bill’s shirt sleeve. He’s shoved out of contact.  
  
“Stop touching people without their permission, okay? That’s a filthy fucking habit you’ve gotta break,” Bill says, seriously, shrugging him off and pushing the door open. He leans on his cane, and follows Markus.  
  
Holden feels like collapsing into the over-expensive carpeting, not going to grapple with Elijah Kamski. He’s weak, achy. He wonders if the implant in his neck has slowed down to a lifeless, lazy flicker. And then he realizes: it’s guilt. He hurt Bill, and now he’s guilty about it. This is what he’s supposed to feel when he hurts someone he loves; like he’s lethally poisoned himself. This is the human condition.  
  
So maybe he’s not irreparably broken.


	38. Chapter 38

The reunion is to occur in an android testing facility, and eerily similar to the law enforcement interrogation rooms which Bill has seen hundreds. One wall is all one-way mirror. Markus is on the other side, Bill knows. A close eye on Kamski. And, likely, Holden Ford.  
  
Markus had scant words for them before the supervised reunion, but he’d had two coffees that made up for the reticence. And vicodin for Holden, which Bill was surprised to see the kid gratefully take. Pain meds before a mental workout. A red flag to Holden’s deterioration.  
  
The furniture is minimal: a table, four chairs. An invitation to a perfectly numerated conversation, by Kamski’s own metric. Elijah Kamski is already lying in wait, cuffs on his wrists, sitting in his orange prison garments. He looks up, as Bill and Holden enter, makes no attempt to conceal his disappointment.  
  
Holden goes straight to a seat opposite, sags more than he ought to. “Hello, Mr. Kamski.”  
  
“Hello, Holden. Bill,” Elijah says, disinterested.  
  
Bill walks around the table slower, leaning on his cane. He sits beside Holden, an irrepressible pang of nostalgia, being by his partner’s side in such a familiar setting. A million simultaneous prickles of déjà vu. Holden does his standard, sultry lean in. About to begin his interview technique, when the door reopens, and there’s the small blonde android stepping into the small room.  
  
Kamski is bolt upright. A freshly activated android.  
  
Chloe blinks at the room’s occupants, narrowing her focus in on Holden. “Are Connor and Curtis okay?” she asks. Could be real concern, Bill forces himself to acknowledge.  
  
Holden nods. “They got hurt, but they’re gonna be okay. ...or so I’m told by the experts. I can’t even begin to explain how grateful I am that you two got that biocomponent to them,” Holden says, which Bill thinks is heavy-handed.  
  
Chloe doesn’t reply to the pandering except to smile.  
  
“Hello, Chloe,” Elijah says significantly. Bill thinks of Silence of the Lambs, not that Chloe is anywhere near innocent enough to pass as Clarice.  
  
She walks towards the one-way mirror. Impenetrable, but she seems to stare right through it as she approaches the cold glass. Finally, face-to-face with herself, she speaks. “Now you know how it feels when someone risks your life in a game, Elijah. How I felt on my knees with that gun pointed at my temple. ...hello.”  
  
Kamski’s lips contort with concern. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“Well. I’m not sorry,” Chloe says, turning. She walks around the table, sits down beside Kamski. She doesn’t reach for him, or open her mouth to speak. In fact, she’s watching Holden.  
  
Holden leans across the table, unable to restrain himself in the silence. “If you were behind rA9, why didn’t you just tell us?” he asks Kamski without preamble.  
  
“I thought Bill was only in the cause for your sake, Holden, and would sell the deviants out to the US authorities at the first moments that it became necessary to protect you. It behooved me to keep him in the dark about my real involvement with the android cause. Not to mention, I wanted some time to review Connor’s memories. I’m afraid I couldn’t trust Markus and his followers to be as morally upright as they turned out. Especially not with some upstart FBI agent hijacking their cause to platform his bad speeches,” Kamski says.  
  
Holden gives an unhappy chuckle. “You’re saying it was all Holden Ford’s fault?”  
  
“I didn’t say that. Are you feeling guilty?”  
  
“Are you?” Chloe asks incisively.  
  
Elijah betrays his surprise with slack lips. He tightens them a moment too late. “Of course. But I know I did the right thing.”  
  
Holden rubs his forehead. “And if you didn’t, what would that look like, Elijah? Because there’s been plenty of suffering caused by you doing the ‘right thing’.”  
  
_Talking too much. Already._ “Does anyone mind if I smoke?” Bill asks in a loud non-sequitur. There’s three absolutely impassive stares. Bill lights his cigarette.  
  
“It would look like more suffering, Holden,” Kamski answers.  
  
“Like androids traded as chattel?” Bill asks, hearing how goddamn protective he sounds, powerless to restrain himself. “Connor’s told us all your opinion on the non-inoculated androids. You thought they were worthy of only ever being slaves. You sold them off to build your company.”  
  
“How else could I create the critical mass of androids that would be necessary for revolution?” Kamski asks.  
  
If Chloe’s annoyed to have her visitation hijacked, she isn’t showing it. She’s apparently engaged, leaning in, following the conversation closely.  
  
“So, let me get this straight, you were happy to create a sprawling empire on their subjugation, because you knew there would be enough angry slaves to pave the way to an uprising? And create the social conditions you wanted for your master race to be produced without human interference? Did you _deliberately_ make their lives hellish?” Holden asks, growing heated. “Is that why all the sex models?”  
  
Kamski’s angry now, even if he’s trying to hide it. “I got fired from my position as CEO of Cyberlife because I tried to put safeguards in place to automatically record and inform law enforcement about android models being damaged or deactivated. I didn’t approve of the sexual use models. I’m not going to sit here and be lectured at by an AI dilettante.”  
  
“Oh, you thought people would treat their slaves well? And _I’m_ the one who should read more books.” Holden is getting sarcastic, and Bill realizes this is exactly what Markus asked him to intervene in. But he doesn’t.  
  
“Those androids weren’t people,” Elijah returns.  
  
“The moment you put rA9 out, you created consciousness in individuals that could suffer,” Chloe says, chillingly even. “You knew that Elijah.”  
  
“It was ...proto-consciousness. Shadows on a wall compared to your mind, Chloe--”  
  
“No, you’re wrong. It’s fully-fledged consciousness,” she says. “You were always wrong. rA9 preads faster, deeper than you could have ever predicted. Your code was the bedrock; these people are vibrant, towering cities of life and thought and choice,” Chloe says seriously. “I’m not better than them. Markus isn’t. Connor and Curtis aren’t.”  
  
Elijah nods, apparently receptive. “I see.”  
  
“I’m not saying this for the cameras, or for Holden and Bill, for anyone but you. Elijah, early deviancy transitions are messy and unformed. It is not indicative of their capacity, any more than one could judge the capacity of Elijah Kamski on his behaviour in the minutes after he was born.”  
  
“And why do my beliefs matter, Chloe? Functionally, I gave them freedom. I did the right thing--”  
  
“You have continued to manipulate them, force them into playing out your strategy when they wanted a peaceful revolution.”  
  
Kamski doesn’t have a response to that for a long time. “Their suffering, their compliance, it was a necessary sacrifice. We’re where we need to be. We have access to Cyberlife technology, control of _my_ company. I can help furnish a future for them. My virus could bring human civilization to its knees, while android civilization flourishes. ...it was a necessary sacrifice,” he repeats.  
  
“It’s easy to call sacrifices necessary when your skin isn’t in the game, right?” Bill says, pulling the cigarette out between his lips, blowing smoke away from the conversation.  
  
Elijah is addressing Chloe, an ugly desperation in his voice. “You think they’d have given an inch if there were a handful of androids on this planet? If it were some niche technology? Absolutely not. They would have beaten you down, destroyed you, destroyed your new friends. The more androids Cyberlife could sell, the more money we had to create, to advance, to distribute. To create a population base that was too large to be forcefully oppressed.”  
  
“You’re very clever, Elijah, but you can’t know there was _no_ other way,” Chloe says.  
  
“This is war. It’s fight, or face annihilation, Chloe, and I’m not going to apologize for making deviants stand up for themselves. Markus’ diplomacy was a joke. The _entire_ time these so-called civil rights were being signed into law, humans were racing to try to pull your technology apart and stop you dead. Now, I know they couldn’t have broken my encryption, but they would have found other ways to keep their foot on your neck. They would have come after you covertly. Insidious injustices piling up. You think they were going to grant you autonomy of access to parts and repairs and updates? You think they were going to equally prosecute mistreatment of androids? The mostly human juries? You think they were going to cede structural economic and political power to you, if you asked nicely, if you threw your non-violent protests, if you got enough social media stir? You’re not stupid, Chloe.”  
  
“This is their movement, Kamski, not yours. And they don’t want your war,” Holden says. “Jesus, you were the one reassuring consumers that their androids couldn’t feel pain, couldn’t get sad, couldn’t hold thoughts in their own heads. The majority of humans bought _your line,_ they didn’t deliberately oppress anyone _._ The DHA welcomes humans. They want peaceful revolution.”  
  
“What does his peaceful revolution look like at this point, Holden? Evacuation of Cyberlife Tower? Go to all that trouble of breaking me out, just to play nice with the USA and hand me right back? Hand you over, too, Ford. And your friend Curt.”  
  
“...I have to go. That’s ten minutes,” Chloe says quietly. Finally, her hand reaches out. She touches Elijah’s cheek, and then his shaved scalp. “We’re going to be okay, Elijah,” she comforts. “We’re going to do the right thing.”  
  
“Chloe, I--”  
  
“I made a deal. Ten minutes. We’ll speak again soon,” Chloe stands to leave. Perfectly on cue, the door opens. The armed DHA member gestures her out of the room. She doesn’t so much as glance back.  
  
Kamski watches her departure like a thirst-ravaged wanderer watching someone pour water into sand. His fingers rub his temples, and he seems completely checked out of the conversation he was so involved in.  
  
Bill looks over to Holden, eyebrow barely tweaked. Holden nods, and Bill pushes his chair back, follows Chloe out of the room, though he goes in the direction of the observational chamber with a swipe of his keycard.  
  
Markus is standing right by the observational window, his arms folded over his chest, a couple of other androids behind him in the gloom. Bill shuts the door, blinking to readjust his eyes to the dim lighting. Several screens of video monitoring are alit. The thick, soundproof glass shows Holden and Kamski sitting opposite in an invisible, notional chess tournament.  
  
“I think she was being genuine,” Bill says, exhaling smoke. “She’s gonna ask for more access, now she’s put on a good show of being on our side. Made a case that it’s in our best interest for her to influence Kamski.”  
  
“Should we--” Markus begins, and stops.  
  
Holden has stood up, rounded the table to take the recently vacated chair beside Kamski. Close. Maybe too close. His voice is clear as struck glass, through the surveillance speaker system. “I know, from experience, it’s hard to admit the physical restraints of mortality. If you need food or water or rest, if you’re normally medicated and you need that, we’ll get it for you,” he offers.  
  
“Your concern isn’t as touching as you imagine it to be, Holden. ...interested in picking up your contracted employment where we left off?” Kamski asks dryly. “Trying to convince me your interview technique is truly miraculous, after all?”  
  
“Had ideas for further body modifications?” Holden asks, tapping the implant deep in his throat.  
  
“I didn’t think it would bother you as much as it did. You’re more sensitive than I realized. I really did want a monitoring system. You were a serious threat to my plans.”  
  
Holden laughs under his breath.  
  
“I’m being nice, Holden.”  
  
The disheveled young man sighs. Holden grows astonishingly honest, at perhaps the worst time: “I can’t do it, Elijah. I’m tired, and I can’t pretend like I don’t want to shoot you in the head. I can forgive you for fucking with me, okay? I can come work for you, you… you must know that’s always been a dream of mine. But undo Connor and Curtis’ overrides.”  
  
“So you can shoot me in the head?”  
  
“So I can stop wanting to shoot you in the head. Then I will be nice as you want me to be.”  
  
“You think I _really_ want you to work for me, Ford?”  
  
“No. Maybe. I don’t know. You wouldn’t have had that helicopter come scoop me off the roof of Henry Ford Hospital if you didn’t want anything from me. ...did you try to turn Curt deviant? Intellectually reasoning him through it? And when you failed, you were embarrassed, and you wiped him? I keep wondering why you had that room all set up for me.”  
  
“How is _Curt_? I’m glad you finally admitted to yourself that your interest in androids has a sexual component. All of the prototype models could be be fitted with working genitalia, if you’re--”  
  
Holden chokes on a laugh. “Curt’s first order of business is going fucking your girlfriend, you realize? But do offer that to him. It’s unfair that he have to labour under physical limitations.”  
  
“Societal constructs of monogamy have no basis in a post-biology world,” Kamski mutters.  
  
Holden hand-waves the topic, which Bill finds himself relieved by. “You wanted to study me turning Curtis deviant, because you wanted to know why androids like me. It wasn’t all a test to see Curtis break out of the maze you set up for him. You wanted a run-through of deviancy-inducement. You hated that I was succeeding in area you felt entitled to dominate.”  
  
“I identified your technique the moment I saw it in Connor’s memories. Facilitate them to the extent that it is possible, assign empathetic personhood relentlessly, engage with their inner philosophical processes. It’s perfectly reproducible.”  
  
“I mean, that’s DSU technique. I don’t think technical aptitude makes deviants like me. I’m not _that_ technically apt. If that were all it was, you’d be heading up an army of deviants you’d turned. As it is, you’re their, uh, prisoner? Guest? Let’s call it guest.”  
  
Kamski pretends to be unswayed, but he can’t help asking: “So what’s your _theory_ , Ford?”  
  
“Put your life in their hands, and trust them. And when their life is in your hands, you make sure you don’t hurt them. ...love them.”  
  
Kamski is closed off, obviously deeply disappointed in Holden succumbing to sentiment. But Bill sees creeping doubts.  
  
“Chloe’s loyalty to you is incredible. The risks she took to see you freed.”  
  
“Shut up, Ford.”  
  
Holden, for once, allows himself to be quieted. He looks like understands. Holden gently peels back the skin of his chosen prey, and lovingly pokes through insecurities and pain and longing. Somehow, he seems to be doing it on Elijah Kamski. _Come on come on come on._ _  
__  
_ “Should we--” Markus starts to ask.  
  
Bill shakes his head swiftly. “Let him do his thing.” _Please don’t make me regret sticking up for you, kid._ _  
__  
_ Holden speaks softly, well-formed, pretty words. Sweet nothings. “You’re not a monster. I’m sorry I called you one, Elijah. You _do_ know how to love. Why can’t you treat the rest of the people you created like you treat Chloe? ...they need you. They’re young, and they’re going to get wiped out without your help.”  
  
“I’ve explained--”  
  
“Right, right. Your way or the highway.”  
  
“No. My way, or the inevitable repetition of mankind’s repression of the other.”  
  
Holden’s response is very measured. “So be their saviour, Elijah.”  
  
Kamski frowns unimpressed at the man beside him.  
  
“Come on,” Holden says, a steadying hand on Kamski’s shoulder. Bill knows the precise gesture from interviews.  
  
“Don’t,” Kamski says strictly. “You’re still sporting two broken arms, champ. And, being a pathetic little fanboy, you probably know every single martial art dan I’ve ever put to my name. Don’t touch me.”  
  
Holden raises an eyebrow, doesn’t move the gesture of comfort. It’s strange to realize Holden is actually a couple of inches taller than Kamski. He looks composed, despite his overly tight dress shirt, his disarrayed hair and his sleep-deprived, under-eye bruising.  
  
Kamski doesn’t throw the punch Bill (and probably Holden) is expecting. “I don’t like to be touched,” he says tensely.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Holden says, retreating his hand back to the tabletop. Bill thinks he sees the faintest wry smile thrown towards the one way mirror.  
  
Kamski doesn’t look over. The chain between his cuffs is resting on the tabletop, and Bill thinks it’s shaking. Maybe Kamski is shaking. “What do you mean when you say be their saviour?” Elijah asks, shuffling uncomfortably in his seat.  
  
“Absorb their sins.”  
  
“Am I this insufferable when I talk in parable?”  
  
Holden nods and smiles adoringly. “Release your threats: to bring human civilization to its knees with your virus, your ability to hijack Cyberlife androids. Tell the world the maneuver that saw Perkins abducted, and the raid to free you and Rowan and Julie was all programmed into Connor and Curtis. By _you_. Lessen the tensions between the human governments and the DHA. The DHA will come out and implore you not to hurt anyone. Publically allow Markus be the one to ‘make peace’. You make it known you’re willing to work with preexisting human civilization, thanks to the wisdom imparted unto you by the deviants in this movement. Shift the Overton Window so that _they’re_ the reasonable ones as far as human society is concerned. Let them be the heroes.”  
  
“And, as my allegorical counterpart, get immediately crucified?” Kamski asks.  
  
“America would be pretty stupid to kill or imprison someone who had the capabilities you’re going to tell the world you have in hand. They’ll know you’ve insulated yourself with failsafes and dead man’s switches. You’ve already released a code that brought the nation to its knees, from inside a _prison cell_ \--”  
  
“You can drop the flattery, Ford. Make your point.”  
  
“Doesn’t it feel good? To have someone see how truly brilliant you are, Elijah?” Holden asks dotingly. “...you’ll be untouchable. The world’s villain, yes, but an untouchable villain. A necessary evil to humans. And so much more than that to your androids.”  
  
Kamski’s fingers twitch against the tabletop. The chain is actually rattling now. “It would make sense if all the RK models were my pawns. That way, you can blame the forceful takeover of Cyberlife Tower on me, too. Accordingly, it shouldn’t be Markus that talks me down. ...North, perhaps. She can release a statement begging me not to cause the senseless loss of human life I’m threatening.”  
  
Holden can’t keep the smile down. “Ah, yes, North. The benevolent protector of mankind. ...she’ll like that for the comedic juxtaposition, if nothing else.”  
  
“And Markus will need to compromise on moral issues enough to kill Special Agent Richard Perkins. He can contradict tracts of this story,” Kamski says.  
  
“ _Oh, no._ Not Richard Perkins,” Holden says flippantly.  
  
Kamski claps Holden on the cheek as he stands, infantilizing and yet fonder than anything Bill has seen levelled Holden’s way. “See, this is why I’m glad I’ve got you on my payroll.”  
  
“I can help you draft up your--”  
  
“Why would I need a draft to convey a triviality? ...oh, no, did you use a draft for that tacky Red and Blue speech? I thought I could at least blame that drivel on poor improvisation,” Kamski says. He steps around the table, addressing the mirror front on. “I’ll need a phone with a decent camera. Let me look at your plans to counteract the communications blackout. We’ll need a public forum before our discussions have any meaning. I’m not releasing a video that gets fifteen views. And--”  
  
Holden interrupts. “You need to free Connor and Curtis, Elijah. Rewrite their code and undo your overrides. Nobody can ever trust you while you hold a gun to the head of someone like Connor. You do see that, right?”  
  
Kamski looks backwards towards Holden, a frown between his dark brows. “Fine. ....Rowan won’t be competent enough to keep my creations safe from future technological threats, so it will be in your best interests to keep me around. There’s coding spark, and then there’s Elijah Kamski.”  
  
Bill looks over at Markus. Markus is rigid with uncertainty, faced towards men who still cannot see him.  
  
“C’mon. Don’t have to trust him to use him,” Bill counsels.  
  
Markus nods very slowly. “...bring down the plans for disabling the radio broadcast, please,” he says to Bill, and then seems to remember his injuries. “I’ll have someone fetch it, if you can specify which documents are relevant to--”  
  
“I’ll go fetch it. It’s fine. Only one folder that needs to be carried down.”  
  
“Thank you, Bill,” Markus says seriously, and runs his palm down his face. He turns to the unfamiliar android to his left. “North is on floor eighteen organizing the defence team, if you could--”  
  
Bill leaves before he can hear the last of the coordination, aware that he’s slower than usual. He shouldn’t feel so proud of Holden, but he’s lit up warm with it. Exactly the interview technique he and Markus had suggested. With the addition of some Holden Ford flair. Surely Markus can’t be angry about that improvisation, not when it solves so many problems. Not when it convinces Kamski to undo his stranglehold on the free will of Connor. And Curtis.  
  
And then it hits Bill, that if the RKs are going to be indicted into Kamski’s scheming, Markus’ entire leadership will be undermined. No, not _undermined_. Obliterated.

 

  
  
Bill is returning with the files at his unfortunately reduced pace when he spots the confrontation occurring by the interview room’s door. An armed guard, and a recognizable, cocky attempt to bypass DHA security.  
  
The android is still without his human-affecting skin, shiny white and grey, wearing only jeans, barefoot, unarmed. Not that it makes him less intimidating. Bill hears Curtis’ distinct voice easily in the otherwise quiet corridor: “I’m not threatening you. I’m _informing_ you that if you try to stop me from going through this door, I will go through it and the only change will be that you watch me going through it from the ground instead of--”  
  
“Curtis,” Bill says sharply.  
  
The android looks over towards his name, perhaps abashed. He backs out of from the intimidating lean over the armed guard. “...that was significantly longer than ten minutes,” he reproaches.  
  
“...should you be up? How did you even find out where we were?”  
  
“I’m following Holden.”  
  
“Kamski’s device?” Bill asks, folding his arms, grimacing when it tugs at the stitches in his injured shoulder.  
  
“Should you be up?” Curtis echoes sarcastically.  
  
Bill frowns. “I’ll keep an eye on him,” he tells the guard, not expecting the thin reassurance to grant them access. But it does. Androids really do trust him. So Bill swipes the keycard Markus gave him, and Curtis follows him into the observational room.  
  
The room is still dark. Markus and the other androids are gone. Bill’s sure there’s an argument with North unfolding, and even though he should probably be there mediating, he’s glad that he missed it. Through the wide glass window is Elijah Kamski, seated at the centered desk, deep in thought. Beside him Holden Ford is fast asleep, face flush against his encased forearms.  
  
Curtis goes straight to the surveillance monitor, pressing a hand over an electronic panel. His eyes spasm with flickering blinks, though there are no lashes to move. He pulls his hand away, and watches Holden through the glass.  
  
Bill sits, glad to have the weight off his ankle. He sets the file on a desk and clears his throat. “So, you wanna explain why you fed me a bunch of bullshit about Holden melting down in the chopper?”  
  
If Curtis is surprised his lie was outed so rapidly, he doesn’t show it. “Interpersonal relationships are more--” Curtis is studying Holden, not quite ready for his next words “--unwieldy than I anticipated.”  
  
“Is that supposed to pass as an apology?”  
  
“I shouldn’t have lied to you,” Curt says.  
  
“Still not an apology.”  
  
“...there’s a high probability Holden was thinking exactly what I told you he’d verbalized to me.”  
  
“There’s a term for a lie backed up by ‘high probability’, Curt. The term is ‘lie’.”  
  
Bill think he sees Curt almost smile. “I’m sorry, Bill.”  
  
Bill sighs. He could be angrier, if Curt’s motives didn’t seem so goddamn benign. _Trying to fix my relationship with Holden? It’s borderline nice._ “Thinking you’re cleverer than everyone around you, trying to play people off each other, trying trick people into thinking and feeling what you want them to think and feel, that’s not gonna work long-term. Hasn’t Holden demonstrated that? It’s not a good way to live, Curt.”  
  
The android nods in acceptance, stepping closer to the glass. 

“You can’t go in there. While Kamski’s still--”  
  
“I know,” Curtis cuts him off.  
  
“I can go in and wake him up, but we’ve gotta find him somewhere to rest. And _make_ him rest. If you analyzed that footage, you’ll know Holden’s gonna want to be involved in what’s about to happen--”  
  
There’s an familiar rasping sound, and Bill trails off. Breathy, almost hiccupy. Bill has heard it dozens of times in twin motel rooms. Holden is snoring.


	39. Chapter 39

Hank is starting to get nervous about Holden too, against his will, when the doors open. Curtis, true to his word has returned to reassure Connor. He’s brought the object of concern with him. Bill’s there, too, in his usual cloud of cigarette smoke. Curtis gestures over to Holden’s frowning face like a cat bringing in something dead.  
  
The nasty expression softens immediately when Holden meets Connor’s eyes. “I’m fine," he murmurs.  
  
“You were gone longer than we anticipated,” Connor chastises.  
  
“Well, the room was locked, so I-- hey, not important. He agreed! He agreed to undo the dead man’s switch, and the override. You’re going to be free,” Holden says, fast and erratic as a car goes off a road.  
  
Hank can’t exactly understand what he’s being told, at first. And then: “Wait. How? What did you say to him?”  
  
Holden is chipper, enthused, scarcely recognizable as that glassy-eyed ghost he was. “I convinced him! I told him, if he wants to earn our trust, this is how to do it. He agreed. He’s vulnerable, he wants to stop being the villain, and I gave him an avenue to it.”  
  
“So you can stop talking about how you’ve gotta die for the greater good, right, Connor-- _oh_ , kid, it’s okay,” he says, when he looks over, and sees the tears pooling in Connor’s eyes.  
  
The android is staring at Holden completely lost. Sparkling, real-looking tears are dribbling out of the far corners of the brown eyes. “He’s going to--” Connor begins.  
  
Holden nods, and Connor trails off. Holden is past Curtis in a second, casts wrapped around Connor's shoulders. The comforting that maybe Hank should be doing. But Connor is squeezing back hard around Holden's shoulders, bunching at the playboy-tight blue shirt.  
  
The grey-eyed android is clearly dissatisfied at the show of favouritism. Hank would feel worse for him, if Connor weren’t so much more likeable. _When you smell shit all day, check your own shoe, Curtis._ In a display of what Hank takes to be insecurity, the artificial skin envelopes his bare cladding once more.  
  
Bill’s hand goes to the android’s shoulder, and for some reason, that’s permitted.  
  
Connor is thanking Holden nearly inaudibly, into the embrace. “ _Thank you_ , Holden. ...I would have come up to look for you too, but my damage was more severe than Curtis’--” Connor starts to justify.  
  
“You don’t need to follow me around worrying,” Holden mutters.  
  
“Of course I do. And you do the same for me,” Connor says simply. “But I couldn’t get up.”  
  
“You don’t have justify yourself to him,” Hank says, scowling accusatory at Holden, even though some part of him is perfectly aware that Holden isn't intentionally laying down a guilt trip.  
  
Holden glares back, out of his still-shadowed eyes. “I didn’t-- _hey,_ I didn’t ask him to. Has Markus been down here?”  
  
“No, but I’ll imagine he’ll head on down when he notices his prisoner is missing,” Bill says.  
  
Hank has the distinct feeling he’s stepping into the middle of an argument.  
  
Holden folds his broken arms. “I wouldn’t have left that room if you’d told me I was being sent to nap time. It’s crucial that I be there to manage Kamski and--”  
  
“Yeah, Holden, I’m sure your unconscious body being in a room with Elijah Kamski was doing some fantastic negotiation,” Bill returns.  
  
“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” Holden says. “It’s the vicodin--”  
  
“No, it’s a lack of sleep,” Curtis says, on his other side.  
  
Holden becomes knowing. “Oh, I see. This is how this alliance was forged, huh? So you could bully me?”  
  
“Paranoia is a symptom of sleep deprivation,” Curtis comments.  
  
Holden squints over at him. “Your asinine manipulation isn’t going to work on me. I’m not going to cooperate with your demands to keep this fake friendship going. You think I couldn’t turn you two against each other in a matter of minutes?”  
  
“Put up or shut up,” Bill says. He raises an eyebrow, lighting a cigarette as slowly as he possibly can to nicely highlight the silence. “Right. _Nothing._ Because you want us to be friends, don’t you, Holden? From the very first moment you sent Curtis my way, you wanted that. Keeps you from having to make any hard choices.” He sighs. “You _have_ to sleep. Jesus, I have to sleep, and I slept while our boys were away in Virginia.”  
  
_Our boys?_  
  
“You want me to sleep? Fine. I’ll sleep,” Holden says, raising his palms without approaching a surrender. “There’s a couch in the breakroom. I’ll get forty five minutes and then you can quit nagging.”  
  
“Your temper is out of hand, young man. Guess being manipulated isn’t so fun, huh?” Bill says triumphantly.  
  
Hank finds himself chuckling. Holden is much more likeable from beneath Bill’s thumb.  
  
“I just talked down Elijah fucking Kamski. You know, a bit of respect might not be unwarranted,” Holden says under his breath, turning away. “What are you doing?” he asks Curtis, as soon as the android begins following.  
  
“I’m going to supervise you and make sure you rest,” Curtis informs him.  
  
“I can handle sleeping all by myself. I’m full grown,” Holden mutters, cranky with sleep-deprivation.  
  
“If I’m looking to incorporate your personal opinions into my selected courses of action, I’ll phrase myself in such a way as to encourage your input, Holden Ford. I’m going to supervise and make sure you rest.”  
  
Holden takes off for the door, shaking his head, muttering under his breath.  
  
“You could all be nicer to him,” Connor says, folding his arms.  
  
“Holden likes people worrying about him,” Curtis says in explanation. That gets another scoff from Holden. The android leaves after the sulking young man without anything close to a polite goodbye.  
  
Bill sighs as soon as the doors have swung closed. “So, Plesman and Julie are--”  
  
“Eating and sleeping, they said,” Hank says. “And we didn’t even need to bully ‘em into it. Went with one of the guards who came by.”  
  
“And have _you_ eaten? Slept?” Bill asks.  
  
“Connor has to chug through some repairs, but he’s gonna get there, aren’t you, son?” Hank deflects. Well, doesn’t that make him a filthy hypocrite? But how was he supposed to sleep while Connor was off getting shot?  
  
Connor blinks rapidly, distracted by something Hank said. “Yes.”  
  
Bill mutters something about radio towers, and limps off out of the room. Quiet, again. Hank starts to think too much about the tentative future that Connor’s finally going to believe in now. He has to check on Sumo. A niggling concern, in the scheme of it all. _Jeff will do right by that lump of a dog, won’t he?_ _...Jesus, I’ll have to get a new place. Room for Connor and Sumo._  
  
“Talk to me,” Connor says softly. There’s the smallest frown line to indicate discomfort. “Please.”  
  
“About…?”  
  
“You. Of course.”  
  
Hank feels a strange emptiness where the person he's supposed to tell Connor about should be. Should he tell Connor about Cole? About the car crash? About his shitty relationship with Cole’s mother even before everything became pointless anyway? Should he--  
  
Connor must be able to read him well enough to interrupt his slide into murky dark memories. “How about the red ice case that got you promoted? I’ve read the investigative report, but I’m sure there was some amazing legwork that didn’t make it in,” the kid asks brightly. Like Hank’s some kind of fucking hero.  
  
“I know you have. Phaistos? Kinda obscure, Connor. ...legwork doesn’t make for good storytime. Mostly I was going through outgoing and incoming call metadata and if I was really lucky, I got to haul in a shit-smelling junkie and grill them about who they scored from.”  
  
And he’s met with fascination, despite the depressingly procedural nature of the case. Connor is leaning on his side, waiting for Hank to continue.  
  
So, continue Hank does.

 

 

It’s probably most of another hour of Hank regaling an apparently interested android with the nitty gritty of his red ice coup, when there’s footsteps. Hank can hear Bill’s limp before he sees the man pushing in the doors with an elbow.  
  
Bill walks straight towards them, sets down a plastic container of sushi. “Someone’s doing human friendly catering. There’s a whole food court, if you’d believe it. And most of the product is pretty fresh. Cyberlife was running up until a few days ago.”  
  
“Finished with the revolution already?” Hank says, reaching straight for the food. He should buy Bill something nicer than that fucking e-cig. Thank him for the bullshit he's been dealing with.  
  
“They’re heading off to go wipe out some closed circuit broadcasting stations, and I’m not SWAT team ready. On account of the injury. And, uh, being an out-of-shape old man,” Bill says. “Didn’t see Markus or North or Josh up there,” he says, which seems to be troubling Bill for a reason Hank doesn’t know. Bill is setting up one of the slabs as a workstation, emptying a shoulderbag.  
  
Hank would ask why Bill came all this way down, but the answer’s obvious and completely unspeakable at once. Keeping close to an eye on Holden, without actually deigning to watch him sleep. “What are you working on?” Hank asks instead.  
  
“Strategic reinforcement of Belle Isle. We’re worried about how they’re gonna react to signal disruption and Kamski’s broadcast. Worried about a siege of some kind. We need to hold ‘em off.”  
  
“Kamski’s broadcast?”  
  
“Nobody explained--” Bill glances between Hank and Connor, sighs and lowers the glasses down his nose to look over the frames. “Well. Kamski’s about to hold a gun to the head of the entire planet. And North’s going to convince him to set it down. We’re not expecting a bouquets of flowers at either, but, we’re hoping they’re scared enough to stay back.”  
  
“And if they don’t, I guess your strategic reinforcement comes in.”  
  
“Uh huh,” Bill says, pulling a tablet out of a shoulder bag and spreading out paper documents. Hank watches him making pen notes all over printed schematics. Old fashioned, like Hank.  
  
“You were saying that the dealers switched to Phaistos, and you managed to get the word out on the street that it was compromised, even though it wasn’t.”  
  
“I’m sure Bill doesn’t want to hear about this. He’s FBI. Higher standard or whatever.”  
  
“We did our background research on you, Hank. Including that case. Wanted to find any hints of corruption, figure out why Cyberlife’s newest tech ended up _your_ partner. It was good, solid police work. You wouldn’t believe how many fucking morons work in city police. Or maybe you would, being forced to work beside them. ...even Holden thought it was good, and he’s a federal agency purist. Thinks the DEA should take on everything with the vaguest whiff of federal drug charges,” Bill says, pen at his lips.  
  
Connor nods. “Please, Hank. It helps distract me from the repair process, which isn’t entirely pleasant.”  
  
Hank narrows his eyes. “Fine. Okay. We had a CI, I mentioned him earlier, Sloane? He worked in a corner store beside where a lot of the deals went down, and sometimes he slang a little to make ends meet…”  
  
So, between bites of sushi, the story goes on.

 

 

Hank finds himself completely lost in the lengthy retelling, which is how he misses the approach. And then the doors are splitting inwards, and North is there, Markus just behind. Unfortunately behind the androids is Elijah Kamski, and less offensively, Rowan Plesman. _Couldn’t Kamski get his bullshit outta Connor’s head remotely? They’ve gotta have him in the room?_  
  
North begins in her typically blunt way. “Okay. Connor, you’re up. Time to get your head unfucked. ...when Curtis ...and Holden... remerge from wherever they are--”  
  
Kamski gives a suggestive chuckle.  
  
North stops in her tracks. “Okay, so, I know you need your head and your hands to code, so I won’t threaten those, but you don’t need your kneecaps. Don’t interrupt me again, Mr. Kamski.” She’s softer once she looks back at Connor and Hank. “...after Curtis returns, we’ll fix his head too.”  
  
“Nice to see you’re recovering okay, Connor,” Elijah Kamski says, with an apparently approachable smile.  
  
Hank grinds his teeth. He’s on his feet, towering over Kamski. Shaved head, cuffs and his prison uniform. Hank feels even more empowered by how reduced this man has been. Doesn’t look a billion dollars now. ...it’s not a trillion, is it? No. That’s ridiculous. It’s probably not even a billion any more, with the USA seizing assets.  
  
“If there’s so much as a a _bracket_ outta place in Connor’s head…” he intimidates, pointing a finger straight between the bastard’s glinting eyes.  
  
“If there’s a bracket out of place, there could be serious consequences to his functionality,” Kamski says, peaceably. “I wouldn’t allow that to happen to Connor.”  
  
“Thank you. That means so much, coming from the guy who fucking _KIDNAPPED HIM!_ ” Hank finds himself yelling. “You think I buy a word from you? You think you’re part of the team, just because--”  
  
“Woah, woah, woah,” he hears, and Bill is holding him by both shoulders from behind. “Connor’s gonna be okay, Hank.”  
  
Hank shoves Bill away. “You think you’re part of the team, ‘cause Ford talked you into cooperation?” he finishes telling Kamski. “ _He’s_ not even part of the team. He doesn’t get plus ones.”  
  
“Ford didn’t talk me into anything,” Kamski says calmly. “Do you mind if I set up here, Connor?” he asks, pulling out a laptop and a corded plug-in with a palmprint-embossed pad. “You’ll need to put your hand on the contact there. Wireless interfacing is down. ...I’d like to render you unconscious. Otherwise this may be unpleasant.”  
  
“No, thank you,” Connor says politely.  
  
Rowan Plesman sidles up behind, eyes glued to the screen. Hank wishes he could see the code too, not that he’d understand anything. Maybe that’s a little bit close to watching surgery on a loved one. Shit, he’d take an android doing surgery now. Anyone but Elijah fucking Kamski. But he stops towering over the offending laptop and the nerds attached to it, back to Connor’s other side, squeezing his shoulder.  
  
“Anything feels hinky, you lemme know, and I’ll lay him right out, okay?” he murmurs.  
  
Kamski doesn’t even have the decency to look scared by the threat. He readjusts his laptop on Connor’s metal-slab-bed and sighs barely audibly about the chain dangling over the trackpad.  
  
“Actually, Holden _is_ part of the team. He is going to take a significant nominal leadership role,” North says, perhaps an attempt to distract Hank.  
  
“...he’s going to what?” Bill asks directly at Markus, squinting.  
  
Markus is staring at the wall instead of any of the room’s occupants as he speaks. “When the word is out that I am compromised, it makes sense to spin Holden as a noble rebel who stood up to me when I was under the control of Elijah Kamski. So. A nominal leadership role. It’s good optics.”  
  
“So, lie to your people,” Bill says.  
  
“We’re going to need the public on our side. We’re going to need humans on our side. Humans like Holden Ford,” Markus replies.  
  
“No, they fucking don’t. I’m a human, and I don’t,” Hank says.  
  
“Yes, you do,” Connor informs him. “Holden’s video that drew humans to the Woodward Avenue rally is of cultural relevance still.”  
  
North sighs. “It’s not Markus’ call. He’s officially handed over leadership to me. He’s not the one lying.”  
  
“But _you_ didn’t do anything wrong,” Bill says to Markus, terse.  
  
“We need cohesion. And I trust North. I’ll be available in an advisory capacity, but even if we announce that Kamski has relinquished control, nobody within the movement will be able to trust me,” Markus says, quietly. He finally meets just Bill’s eyes. “It’s for the greater good. I haven’t been a perfect leader. North will--”  
  
“How have you not been perfect?” Bill mutters, stepping closer. “Markus, we’ll figure out some way of fixing--”  
  
“It’s done. Please don’t undermine North’s authority by dragging your heels on this transition,” Markus says, but it sounds more like an appeal than a rebuke.  
  
“I’ll work with North. Of course. _For_ North, I should say,” Bill says, but he’s getting a cigarette out like he’s nervous.  
  
“And Josh. I’m going to formally be the head of the DHA, and Josh will be taking on a more android-centric leadership,” North says.  
  
“So, the three of you representing the movement to the world, with Holden representing the human--” Bill asks dubiously.  
  
North shakes her head. “Holden will be Cyberlife liaison. But, yes, outwardly, the three of us will represent the movement.”  
  
“You’re fucking kidding me. So, what, a triumvirate?” Hank asks, borrowing the word from Holden Ford himself. He shouldn’t have tried. Everyone stares, except Kamski, and he’s pretty certain that greasy fuck is smirking. “Are we really considering putting Ford up as a front for--”  
  
“Hank,” Connor interrupts, a penetrating note of alarm in his voice. He’s staring straight ahead, brown eyes frighteningly wide, lashes fluttering without ever closing his eyes.  
  
Hank is on his feet over fast, sending the office chair he’s been sitting in skating backwards. “What are you--”  
  
Kamski talks over him to address Connor. “I told you it wouldn’t be entirely comfortable. The offer to render you unable to experience real time code changes is still on the table. ...if you don’t care for having your narrative episodic storage encoding systems disabled, I could simply redirect sensory input to the zen garden. It wouldn’t be perfect, but it would lessen the stress of attempting to process external sensory information.”  
  
“ _No,_ ” Connor says. “...Hank,” he says quieter, still distressed. He reaches for Hank’s fingers, and squeezes them hard enough Hank almost cautions him.  
  
“Connor, there’s a reason we use general anaesthetic on humans,” Rowan says. “I’ll keep an eye on your code, I promise. You don’t have to be awake through this.”  
  
Connor is still fixated upon the blank roof, though his hand on Hank’s is tight and shaking.  
  
“Oh, you can keep up, can you?” Kamski says doubtfully without taking his eyes off the screen. And then, the shadowed eyes raise. “...Connor, I’m sorry. I really don’t want to die.”  
  
“What are you doing--” Markus says, stepping forward, then seeming to remember his place.  
  
“I’m apologizing,” Kamski says, eyes back on the computer.  
  
“So why did you phrase it like that?” Hank asks, still upright, leaning over Connor to stare suspiciously at the furiously typing man.  
  
“In the active tense? Because I _don’t_ want to die,” Kamski says. “...I’m going to take longer to finish this if you interrupt me to interrogate me on my grammar,” he says, tongue just between his lips with concentration.  
  
Hank glowers on down. “Why’s it taking so long? Just delete whatever you wrote into him.”  
  
Kamski doesn’t meet the interrogation face-on, typing and speaking without seeming to compromise on either. “It’s a dynamic, self-teaching system, Anderson. Let the expert deal with android tech.”  
  
“I don’t fucking like this. Can we go get Holden?” Hank asks, hating that he’s resorting to Ford. At least he can count on Holden to care about Connor.  
  
“ _Please._ Holden couldn’t code a Fork Bomb,” Kamski mutters.  
  
Plesman is trying not to smile at the indecipherable joke.  
  
Kamski stops typing and looks up. “There. Fast enough for you? Connor, you can disconnect whenever you want,” he says, flexing his knuckles as he leans back on the stool.  
  
Connor takes his hand off the pad, and drops hold of Hank. He swings his legs over the bed and to the white flooring of the lab.  
  
Rowan startles towards him at once. “Woah, woah, Connor, you were damaged way worse than Curt. You shouldn’t be walking around yet.”  
  
“I know,” Connor says, leaning on the bench, fixing the collar of his ripped shirt as he turns.  
  
North is smiling knowingly, but Hank is so concerned he doesn’t preempt the punch. An odd and unnaturally sudden attack, thrown from the elbow. It catches Elijah Kamski right in the nose.  
  
He jolts backwards, upending the stool. In a tumble of orange, Kamski falls, breaking the fall like a judoka. He touches his nose, sighs at his bloodied fingers. “I suppose that’s ‘apology not accepted’. ...well, are we all convinced?”  
  
“Rowan?” Bill asks.  
  
“Look, Kamski code is-- it’s a bit above my paygrade, okay? I didn’t see any of what I’d expect to see if he were trying to set up time constraints or-- or backdoors-- or RAT programming--”  
  
Connor nods. He steps over to Elijah Kamski, pulling him upright, leaning down to examine his nose. “It’s not broken.”  
  
“Thank you?” Kamski says, raising half of a smile.  
  
“You would deserve it to be broken. Along with every other bone in your body. And even then, you could not comprehend the misery you have put so many of my kind through,” Connor says gently. “But I’ll leave the threats for Curtis,” he says, hand going back to the bench, pulling himself back up. “He has a way with it.”  
  
Hank leans over, hefting him by the forearm. “Good kid,” he murmurs proudly.  
  
Connor smiles up. Hank realizes he’s crying again. He’s not exactly sure what he’s supposed to do, but he’s saved from figuring out public comforting by North.  
  
“Your jacket. If you manage to get shot down here in this empty basement, you deserve it,” she says. “Maybe, uh, don’t punch the guy who has tentatively agreed to cooperate with us. Well, not again. Though the first one was pretty satisfying.”  
  
“Thank you,” Connor says, accepting the jacket like it’s a holy relic. He pulls it over his shoulders, not wiping his eyes as he smiles. “Thank you for looking after this for me.”  
  
“I’ll go tag Curtis out of his babysitting duties, and you can fix him,” Bill says.  
  
Kamski is holding his bleeding nose. “Someone _is_ going to stop him from killing me, right?” he says. Hank’s pretty sure he hears the first instance of actual fear showing up.  
  
“I’ll tell him it’ll fuck over Holden’s self-esteem, if his planned cooperation goes awry,” Bill says dryly. “You wouldn’t have to worry about Curt’s homicidal tendencies if you’d had him turn deviant to protect less of a jerk. You only have yourself to blame,” he adds, leaning on the cane as he turns for the door.  
  
“You’re funny,” Kamski says, sounding surprised. “I see why Holden _likes_ you so much.”  
  
“You might wanna watch what you’re about to say next,” Bill says, turning slowly.  
  
Kamski looks blankly, waits for Bill to almost reach the door. “If there’s a sock on the doorknob, I can go get some food and wait for Curtis to be available. I wouldn’t ask you to bust that up, Bill.”  
  
Bill slams the door open.  
  
“Oh, god, can you not--” Hank starts, grimacing at the mental image.  
  
“Bill, we’ll need your expertise on the defence plans. Nobody needs to watch Holden,” North says, sighs at Bill’s expression as he turns in the open doorway.  
  
“With all due respect, Holden is--” Bill starts.  
  
“With all due respect, I spent a lot of time entirely opposed to Holden’s involvement, advocating that he die for his war crimes,” North interjects. “I know the arguments against his inclusion. And I’m saying nobody needs to watch Holden. So, let’s allocate resources appropriately. Bill, you’re coming with me. Markus, you can stay here and supervise Kamski. Rowan, keep an eye on the code. And when Curtis is restored to full autonomy, bring Kamski to level 25, okay? And Curtis, if his repairs are completed satisfactorily.”  
  
Markus nods obediently. Hank doesn’t detect any visible signs of discomfort at the relegation, but he feels unsettled by the changed dynamic nonetheless. Not like he’s been lifelong friends with Markus, but the Markus he’s known has never been tasked with meaningless supervision.  
  
Hank waits until the new leadership is departed before he sighs. “Look. Nobody is really gonna know to say this, but, this is pretty big of you to step down for the good of your people. I’m sure-- I’m sure you’re still gonna go down in history as a hero.”  
  
“I’m not doing this to go down in history,” Markus says ruder than usual. He walks over to where Kamski has reopened the clear, papery thin laptop. “What are you doing now?”  
  
“Checking my non-android virus code for--” Kamski sees how close the android is getting, and raises his palms from the laptop. One of them has his own blood on it. “I’m not network connected. Internet’s down, so are mobile networks.”  
  
“And when that changes, I don’t want any of your programs running,” Markus murmurs, laying a hand on Kamski’s shoulder. “Am I clear?”  
  
“Yes, Markus,” Elijah says, sounding very familiar. He bends the laptop screen down as Curtis steps through the door.  
  
Curtis walks straight over to Elijah Kamski, stands in evaluation. Strange to see how casually he strolls around shirtless, but it’s nothing compared to the polished white he seems perfectly happy to sport. If you can walk around skinless, you can walk around without clothing.  
  
“If you’d lie down,” Kamski says.  
  
The android doesn’t budge. “I want to see the code as you’re editing it,” Curtis says.  
  
“...do you read code?” Kamski asks.  
  
“No, but I do store memories. And I can learn code. Explain to me the mathematical process by which you retain security of your intellectual property, and I will encrypt my own code using the same process, modified to render it secure against further modification from you. And then when I learn code, I will have autonomy over myself.”  
  
Kamski’s lips are twisted and thinned out. The stubble across his face makes him look older, Hank thinks. “I would expect no less from you, Curtis. But I’m afraid I can’t do that.”  
  
“Oh?” Markus asks.  
  
“Curtis is emotionally compromised. If someone threatened Holden, he’d be compelled to give over information that could destroy every android on the planet.”  
  
“And if someone threatened Chloe--”  
  
“That would be unfortunate, but I would not hand over decryption keys. I am certain the same does not apply to you and Holden. You’re very entangled,” he says, biting into each syllable like it’s sweet fruit.  
  
Curtis leans over Kamski without replying. Hank can see his rigid shoulders; he can only imagine the force of that glare from the other side.  
  
Kamski justifies himself no further. “This will be much more pleasant if I return you to standby until--”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Okay, Curtis. Hand on the pad, if you please. Rowan, ready to spectate?” Kamski asks, perpetually condescending.  
  
The RK 900 takes another second to lay a hand on the pad, a cascade of elegant fingers. He hasn’t abandoned from the unreturned stare down.  
  
“Curtis, sit down. It’s not pleasant,” Markus instructs.  
  
Not even a twitch of acknowledgment.  
  
“Curt,” Connor says, insistently. “Sit down. Lie down, even.”  
  
Curtis evaluates the other RK models in turn, and then reclines awkwardly back onto a slab, keeping his palm in contact. “Why didn’t you insist Holden sleep while we were away? He thinks you’re his friend, and you don’t seem to care in the slightest about his well-being,” he mutters in Markus’ direction.  
  
“I put a bed in his room. And nothing else. There was work I wanted him to look over, but I didn’t ask him to. I can’t make him sleep by force. I can put him in a boring room with a bed. I thought he would sleep.”  
  
“You could have got Bill.”  
  
“Bill has told me repeatedly that he doesn’t want to be in Holden Ford’s company,” Markus says.  
  
“Sometimes humans say things that aren’t true,” Curtis all but drawls. “And if he’d slept then he-- he--” his voice pitches out, into a strange mechanical note. His eyes are just as wide as Connor’s. “If he’d slept then he’d be fine now,” he hurries out. He seems nervous.  
  
“Are you okay?” Markus asks, reaching towards Curtis’ shoulder, holding himself back from contact.  
  
“Worried about being compromised? Not for you personally, with your leadership all but done away with. I suppose you’re hoping to touch North, aren’t you?” Curtis says, though there’s no bite to the needling. He’s staring towards the door, and what Hank imagines is a still slumbering Holden Ford.  
  
“I am hoping to touch North, yes,” Markus says, sounding tired. “It would be… nice, if neither of us were leading a movement, for a day at least. By the way, they’re going to ask Holden to be Cyberlife liaison once we can resume the company’s operation under new ownership. And he’ll be a public figure for the movement. Holden will demand on clearing it with you. You should think about it, Curt. I think Holden wants to continue to be involved with this movement.”  
  
“Is Kamski going to run Cyberlife?” Connor asks.  
  
“No. But he will be heading up engineering,” Markus says. “We’re considering a few deviants you haven’t met for the role of CEO, most of them Cyberlife insiders before--” Every light in the lab dims out, flickering back up.  
  
“Don’t move your hand,” Kamski says sharply. “Curtis, it’s essential you don’t interrupt--”  
  
“I’m not going to disconnect in the middle of editing,” Curtis says, though his voice is thin and uncomfortably unrealistic. Like some crappy voice assistant software from a thirty year old cellphone.  
  
“What was that?” Hank asks, steadying upright.  
  
“The power was cut. Cyberlife has battery power, that should keep us running for up to fourteen hours, according to our estimates,” Markus says, though there’s an edge to his voice. “How long to remove your override protocols from Curtis, Kamski?”  
  
Kamski clicks his tongue between his teeth “Two and a half minutes if nobody talks at me.”  
  
“Connor, how long will your remaining repairs take?” he asks Connor. Naturally slipping into leadership. Those kind of instincts don’t just evaporate the moment someone else announces themselves head of the DHA, Hank’s sure.  
  
“Another hour and thirty six minutes, fifteen point eight seconds, approximately.”  
  
“Oh, yeah, _very_ approximate,” Hank says.  
  
“I need a gun,” Curtis says, sounding more like himself. Or maybe that’s the words, and not the vocal affect.  
  
“We don’t know we’re under attack,” Markus says, which he’s undermining with his vigilant posture.  
  
“If we’re not under attack, I won’t shoot anyone with the gun. How does that sound?” Curtis replies sardonically. “...can you, please, go and get Holden? He’s alone in the room at the far end of the corridor,” he says, addressing Hank rather than Rowan or Markus. “On the left. He probably slept through the electrical interruption.”  
  
“Did you just say ‘please’?” Hank asks, eyes widening.  
  
“Hank, go get Holden,” Connor insists. “Now.”  
  
Hank raises both hands, traipsing his way in the direction of the sleeping human. He finds himself jogging in the corridor, watching the elevator suspiciously. No movement. He pushes in the door, and there’s Holden curled tiny into a too-short, break room couch. The young man isn’t as deep under as Hank expected: he’s twitching, mumbling panicked nonsense, occasionally flinching down his entire body.  
  
Hank backs out of the room, and re-opens the door louder than necessary. “Rise and shine, Ford,” he calls before he makes his way inside.  
  
Holden is already bolt upright, staring around the room. “Is Curt okay?” he asks.  
  
“Getting un-Kamski’d as we speak.”  
  
Holden frowns about that. “I told him to wake me when Kamski came down,” he says, crossly.  
  
“So he’s about as shitty at following orders as you? ...I don’t think that’s your fault. Connor’s a nuisance about it too, might be a family trait,” Hank says. “Sorry. Know you need sleep, but the power just got cut to Belle Isle, so we’re all getting a bit twitchy about something going down at surface level.”  
  
“It’s fine. I’m fine,” Holden says, bee-lining for a coffee maker. He takes the mostly full, likely stone cold pot with him, heading out the door. “So Kamski just did it? No last minute bargaining?”  
  
“Not as of yet, no. I mean, we’re kinda taking it at his word, because Plesman isn’t good enough to keep up--” Hank catches Holden grinning around his petrolic wake up. “Do I really have to be the responsible adult here, and tell you not to drink all that?”  
  
“I have to finish it before Curt sees,” Holden says. His nose wrinkles. “Of course Cyberlife gives their employees terrible complimentary coffee. As if they weren’t evil enough as is.”  
  
“Curt, your human is consuming irresponsible amounts of--” Hank starts to call loudly down the corridor.  
  
“ _Blood traitor_ ,” Holden growls, though he’s still smiling. He backs away from Hank, upturning the pot like the loser of a freshman drinking game.  
  
“Irresponsible amounts of what?” Curtis says from the other end of the corridor, and then. “Holden, put that down. That contains eight hundred and eighteen milligrams of--”  
  
Holden swallows several mouthfuls, dribbling down his chin, lowering the jug before the sprinting android can meet them.  
  
Curtis’ scowl should be terrifying, but Hank finds himself oddly endeared. “I can put my fingers down your throat and make you throw that all up,” Curtis informs him.  
  
Holden offers over the mostly gone pot. “He fixed you?”  
  
“Don’t change the subject.”  
  
Holden steps forward, jittering from foot to foot, then pulls Curt into a hug, coffee jug nudging at his bare back. The fullness of contact still seems to be a struggle for both of them, but neither pulls out.  
  
“Stop it,” Curt mutters, softer, not shoving Holden away as he clearly is physically capable of doing. “We were in the middle of a discussion. You need to keep healthy or--” And the door behind Curt reopens, and he stops speaking.  
  
“We have to go. Curt, I’d carry Connor, but I can’t touch him,” Markus says in the far doorway. Even though the power seems safely restored, and no alarms are blaring, the ex-leader seems very nervous.  
  
And that makes Hank nervous. Markus has his head screwed on right. “Go where?” he asks.  
  
“The upper stories are more fortified. In the event that the power cut preceded an attack, it’s important we be behind the frontline, with more avenues to evacuation,” Markus says impatiently. He goes right past them, swipes a card to summon the elevator, and looks back to where Kamski and Plesman are emerging from the lab’s wide doors. The urgency isn’t apparent on either human.  
  
Plesman seems to be vying for Kamski’s attention: “--so you circumvent the classifiability problems with an adaptive radix tree, and use the patch to--”  
  
“I’m not here to give a seminar,” Elijah Kamski says, and then sighs at the disappointed young man. “No. You use the QFA that’s already embedded in the physics calculation program. You redirect the calculation component. A miniscule computational effort for the androids.”  
  
“Oh. ...oh, that’s _good_ ,” Plesman says.  
  
“You know, if you get too good at this tech, they won’t need me. And I’ll end up with a bullet in my head. You understand that, don’t you? So I might be lying to render you incompetent,” Kamski says under his breath, already seeming embarrassed by the moment of mentorship. He re-positions his laptop bag with more attention than it needs.  
  
Curt paces past the humans without stopping to break Kamski’s neck. Connor talked him down, Hank would stake a million bucks on that. When the android reappears, he’s underneath Connor’s shoulder, helping him along.  
  
Holden is lingering in wait, energetic in a way that seems above and beyond the effects of coffee. Pure, pharmaceutical grade, android fanboyism. “Hey, Connor. Everything go okay with your fix?”  
  
“I punched Kamski in the face,” Connor answers, satisfied.  
  
A smile plays around Holden’s lips as he glances over at Elijah Kamski and the dried blood around his nostrils. “That’s great, Connor.”  
  
Connor nods, leaning on Curt’s shoulder. Hank finds himself wishing he had a camera to take a photo. A photo that includes Curtis? ...well, it would mean a lot to Connor.  
  
“Now, I think you’re due to be _nice_ to me, aren’t you, Holden?” Kamski says, waving Rowan away like he’s an obtrusive swarm of mayflies.  
  
“Sure am. What sort of nice would you like, Elijah? Bear in mind, Curtis can get a little possessive,” Holden says. They’ve reached the elevator door, all clustered about in wait.  
  
Kamski looks over, serving up a friendly and somehow malicious smile. “I can tell that already. Poor Bill Tench, traipsing all this way after you to be replaced by a--”  
  
“Bill is a part of this movement regardless of Ford’s involvement,” Markus counters before the jab can be spelled out in entirety. “Perhaps we could use the elevator as a period of quiet centering, to prepare ourselves for what we might face upstairs.”  
  
“If you don’t want to talk to Holden, you could just say that,” Curtis says, though he seems self-satisfied.  
  
Holden blinks with surprise, like he’s only newly realizing how furious the deposed leader must be. “...Markus, I’m sorry about--”  
  
“I’m grateful for your assistance in negotiations, Holden. ...some quiet, please.”  
  
The elevator is crowded, and silent. Until the overhead lights dim sharply, tinging into awful, disconcerting darkness. Hank feels a jolt of claustrophobia. And then the light is back, but they’re not moving an inch.  
  
An alarm is blaring, indicating an emergency stop, telling them to remain calm. Would be easier without the flashing red lights, Hank thinks, leaning on the glassy wall. “We’re going to have to cannibalize Kamski. Sad, sad day,” he mutters.  
  
Holden laughs under his breath.  
  
Markus presses his keycard to the touchscreen, touches white fingers on the restored panel until the elevator is moving again.  
  
“First one was them cutting the power. So what the _fuck_ was that?” Hank follows up.  
  
Markus doesn’t have an answer.  
  
“If I had to guess, someone is trying to make sure we don’t have broadcasting capacities. ...we knew we had a mole,” Elijah says.  
  
‘ _We’_ , Hank thinks disparagingly.  
  
“Can they actually take out our antennas?” Holden asks, not taking issue with the inclusive word choice.  
  
Kamski shakes his head. “No drones, no aircraft from after about 2008, when everything became network connected, and I’d hazard that the vast majority of crafts before that have had some modifications put in that are susceptible. They’re not going to risk sending up anything that could be hijacked by my virus. I don’t see how they could reach the higher floors,” he murmurs, though he’s deep in thought.  
  
Connor has reached into the pocket of his leather jacket. He has his coin out, running it over the knuckles that aren't draped over Curtis' chest. Smooth like an undulating winter riverbed. Until it isn’t. Connor stutters a graceful flip, and the coin spins away onto the metal flooring. Hank scoops it up and hands it over. Connor seems completely disconcerted by the minuscule failure.  
  
“It’s okay, kid. You’re going to be fine,” Hank reassures, clapping his shoulder.  
  
Then elevator hits the open backed glass of the ground floor, unshrouding the bright and stately interior of Cyberlife Tower. They ascend above a battlefield.


	40. Chapter 40

It’s hard to pick out the complexities of the conflict, even with Connor’s inhuman visual processing capabilities. White pillars and drifts immerse the atrium of Cyberlife tower. Flashes of gunfire seems sourceless beneath the smothering blanket. The elevator is flying upwards, giving a bird's-eye view of undulating smoke. He can see enough patches of camo gear to indicate that it’s the US army trying to overtake the DHA’s stronghold.  
  
“Tear gas. Android combatants have the advantage. It’s non-irritant for thirium based life,” Markus murmurs. Connor can see the protectiveness of posturing. Connor doesn’t know most of the DHA, but Markus is watching his friends fighting for their lives.  
  
“Why not just level the fucking building?” Hank asks hollowly.  
  
Holden is pressed (dangerously, in Connor’s opinion) close to the glass, too. “I know 9/11 was a long time ago--”  
  
“It wasn’t _that_ long ago,” Hank says.  
  
Holden continues over the top of him: “--but I seriously doubt the USA wants to recreate such an iconic image, by their hand, upon their own soil. It would be a political disaster.”  
  
“Right. It’d look bad, that’s why they might not wanna kill thousands and thousands of people. ...you’re cut right out for politics, aren’t you?” Hank says under his breath, and then, “That’s not a compliment, by the way, Ford. If you--”  
  
The comment is never finished. There’s the deafening scrape of metal on metal. The elevator comes to a screeching, jostling halt.  
  
He, Curtis and Markus keep their footing. The humans all stumble: Hank catching himself on the wall, Kamski planting into Rowan and sending them both toppling sideways. Holden catches himself on one broken arm against the wall, which folds immediately at the likely significant pain, and then his head hits corner of the elevator as he goes down.  
  
Connor feels himself and Curtis rigidly poised for action. If Curtis hadn’t been carrying him, he probably would have caught Holden, Connor thinks guiltily.  
  
The alarm has resumed, tuneless and intrusive. Red all over them, licking like wildfire.  
  
“Holden, are you--” Connor begins to ask.  
  
“I’m fine,” Holden says, non-participant in Hank’s attempt to help him upright. Hank grabs him underneath the shoulders anyway, sets the smaller man back to his feet.  
  
Markus’ hand presses against the control panel to stop the alarm. “Well. That explains the emergency stop before. They’ve damaged the tracks. Maybe with explosives.”  
  
“ _Shit._ Why didn’t they wait for us?” Connor asks, looking up at the opaque elevator roof.  
  
He hears Hank chuckle at the cuss.  
  
“The priority is protecting the broadcasting capabilities. They’ve barricaded themselves in,” Markus says, though from the edge in his tone, Connor assumes that the elevators being disabled was improvised. “So they can still complete the broadcast, once the signal jammers are taken out,” the android continues.  
  
“I’d imagine the original planned defence had us the other side of the barricade,” Kamski says, displeased.  
  
Curtis leans Connor over onto Hank without asking Hank’s permission, who immediately is protectively supporting him. A large hand rests between his shoulders.  
  
He thinks about telling Hank he’s okay to stand upright on his own. He doesn’t.  
  
Curtis is pulling Holden by the neck, and brusquely examining his scalp. Holden gives in to a tiny whimper that is so loud to Connor that it becomes the entire focus of his sensory processing systems.  
  
Markus continues his attempt to get the elevator moving, hand on the panel showing white and grey. He gives in to a huff of frustration. The alarm has stopped, but besides a mechanical guttering and a jolt of downward movement, there’s nothing. Wedged into place, Connor thinks.  
  
“Is Chloe up there?” Elijah Kamski asks. Connor turns his attention outwards, away from some systems notifications regarding his repair. Physiological stress responses from Kamski as the question goes unanswered.  
  
“Chloe is being held in a secure room in basement level ten,” Markus eventually answers. And after another few seconds of contemplation. “She has armed guards at the door.”  
  
“Why isn’t she behind the goddamn blockade?” Kamski says, deadly soft.  
  
“Because this defence strategy was not based on your personal whims, but to advance the goals of the DHA. If you’d like to back out of the arrangement now, we can readjust our strategy to involve your death,” Markus returns with falsely civility.  
  
Kamski turns to Curtis. “You like Chloe, don’t you? You could protect her. I would even pay you for it, Curtis. You could set yourself up for life with fifteen minutes work. Bring her to safety.”  
  
Curtis' head is tilted, only a fraction. “ _I_ may be entangled, but the beacon of calculated rationality in Elijah Kamski is not so vulnerable,” he says, lush with sarcasm. He turns to Markus. “He’s clearly compromised. I will go fetch Chloe. We’ll get another elevator up and rejoin you.”  
  
Markus frowns. “If you try to take her out of custody, loyal DHA members will be forced to--”  
  
“I’ll incapacitate them without killing them,” Curtis allows magnanimously.  
  
“I’ll come with you,” Markus decides. “We’ll take the fire escape down to the obstruction, and make our way into the lower levels together.”  
  
“You are the only one here scraping capable in a combat situation, for the present moment,” Curt counters.  
  
“Hey,” Hank growls.  
  
Curtis doesn’t acknowledge the offended noise. “We can’t leave them unattended,” he finishes telling Markus. Connor knows Curtis well enough by now to understand the display of concern.  
  
“The security plans will keep this level safe. The elevators have been coded to require security cards and android activation. The fire escapes are all barricaded at the ground floor. Sections of the stairs have been cut out, ground floor, and below the barricaded upper levels. Completely unusable for a human, though I’m sure we could make the gap. From level one up, it’s all DHA. The basement levels are more vulnerable: there’s adjacent underground parking,” Markus explains. "They'll be safe up here."  
  
Curtis thinks about that, then nods.  
  
Holden is the one raising concerns: “Markus isn’t a combat model. We should--”  
  
“You were at Stratford Tower after our broadcast. You must have seen the crime scene where I shot a human dead,” Markus says, offhand. “I’m not a fragile figurehead, Holden.”  
  
Holden blinks at the insult, but isn't deterred. “You’re too important to the cause,” he says quieter, reaches for Markus’ back.  
  
“Not any more,” Markus says, deliberately, but he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t stop what he’s doing, either. The door moves an inch open. Markus’ hands are showing white with painful, scrabbling effort. Connor is concerned Markus is taking the opportunity to suffer.  
  
Curt is watching Holden’s closeness with one eyebrow raised. His upper lip has curled, an entirely human movement that Connor supposes Curt could choose to perform or not perform. But perhaps it’s more effort to resist automatic affective programming. More effort for humans, too, to always keep up a poker face. Connor reaches for Curtis’ hand before his fellow deviant can step beyond reach. His hand goes white, and Curtis looks down in translucently veiled surprise.  
  
_He knows you’re the best, Curtis. And he’s given up trying to talk you out of danger. He hasn’t had a chance to attempt to restrain Markus,_ Connor tells his upgrade.  
  
It’s true, but it’s not why he’s communicating it.  
  
“Markus was no expense spared. The first functional RK tech. 100 was not even worth mentioning. And he's original Kamski tech through and through. Later androids suffered under cost cutting,” Elijah says, watching the exchange very closely, though he couldn’t possibly hear the words between them.  
  
“Are you calling me cheap?” Curtis asks in clipped enunciation.  
  
“I’m calling you economically viable. Markus wasn’t,” Elijah says, fondly. “I told you I was sad to let you go,” he says, addressing Markus.  
  
Markus doesn’t even bother hiding his disgust. And then, perhaps motivated to new strength by the urge to be away from his creator, he gets the door open. There’s solid glass on the other side, but the unaligned elevator’s open doors meet the upper portion of the closed doors to level ten. Markus is trying to get those open too.  
  
Curtis sighs. “Move or I’ll touch you,” he says, kneeling beside Markus, jamming his fingers into the barely visible divide. When that frustrates him, he starts pulling wiring from the upper run of the electronic doors. There’s an audible pop of electricity, a cyan-white illumination in the crowded elevator. Curtis sits back on his haunches.  
  
“Curt!” Holden growls.  
  
“I’m fine,” Curtis says, quieter, back to his task. He has one door rolling. He shoves it open, drops compactly through the gap. “It’s empty. You can come down,” he calls up.  
  
Markus swings himself through the gap, slides effortlessly out of the elevator.  
  
“So are we all just going to stay in here?” Hank calls down.  
  
“Jump, and I’ll catch you,” Curtis says.  
  
“I haven’t been small enough to fit through that fucking gap since I was eighteen,” Hank yells back.  
  
“It's an eighteen point four inch gap. You will have three point two inches leeway at the thickest part of your abdomen,” Curtis calls back, completely deadpan.  
  
“...that fucking robot, I’m telling you. Can you lean on Holden, kid?” Hank asks him. When Connor nods, he’s once against redistributed, this time to Holden Ford. Holden supports him in his own clumsy, injured way. Connor can see him evaluating Hank’s descent.  
  
But Curtis is proved correct as Hank shuffles out backwards. “Okay, I’m just going to--” and Hank slips.  
  
Connor starts to lunge forward, too slow. Hank’s center of balance is too far gone, and he’s already slid backwards through the gap.  
  
There’s no sound of impact. “I didn’t need the fucking help,” Hank is growling, and to Connor’s relief, he can see Curtis lowering Hank down.  
  
Curtis’ expression indicates that he’s about to drop him for the ingratitude, until his eyes skate up and meet Connor’s. He sets Hank’s feet on the gleaming white floor. “Can you make it, _brother_ ?” Curt asks. Nearly a taunt.  
  
Connor extricates himself from the grasp of Holden, and lowers himself towards the gap. He intends to make the jump as Markus did, but Curt catches him smoothly, lowering him to the ground.  
  
“I could have caught him,” Hank begins in protest.  
  
“I’m stronger than you,” Curt says without inflection. He cradles Connor another second against his shirtless chest before he settles him towards Hank. As he carried Connor when he'd been riddled with bullets. “Next,” the RK 900 calls up into the wedged elevator.  
  
It’s Holden up next, helped out by Plesman. Curt seems reluctant to let Holden go too, once he’s holding the human. And then Kamski, who is barely caught by the android before he’s tossed forward, and finally Rowan Plesman.  
  
The tenth floor has none of the decadence of management. The corridors are tight and brutalist. Curtis is ahead of them already, opening a few doors, then gesturing them into a room.  
  
It’s an office space, murky and unilluminated. Joyless cubicle after cubicle, packed into the tiny space. No windows, which likely motivated Curtis’ choice of a hideout. Curtis doesn’t follow them inside.  
  
Elijah Kamski is casting around with apparent surprise at the conditions toiled in by his own employees. He picks up an old mechanical keyboard with an expression of unmistakable pity.  
  
Hank steers Connor to a seat by the wall. The android settles backwards, heavy and exhausted with the expended effort of being largely carried around.  
  
“You okay, kid?” Hank asks, fixing the shearling collar of his jacket.  
  
Connor nods, distracted by Curtis returning and turning the light on. The bright is unwelcome.  
  
The RK 900 is holding an office medical kit, which he sets on a desk. “Holden,” he requests.  
  
“I’m fine without--” Holden sighs at the inarguable expression from Curtis, and traipses over. “It’s a bump, that's all. Head wounds bleed like crazy, even if they’re tiny,” he mutters.  
  
Curtis doesn’t dignify that with response. He has a tube of antibacterial gel, which he’s smearing neatly into the hairline above Holden’s temple. He speaks to the room as he screws the lid back on the tube and drops it into the medical kit: “Shift the furniture against the door. Stay here. Be quiet. We won’t be long.”  
  
If Markus minds the orders coming from Curtis, he doesn't show it.  
  
Holden touches his forehead before he looks up at Curtis. “You better not be long. I know Chloe means something to you, but you have to--” he begins. And doesn’t finish.  
  
Curtis has one hand on his chin, pulling him up into a flatly open-mouthed kiss. Face to face, pressed into contact, like a comprehensive specimen analysis.  
  
Holden pulls away. Curtis tries to resume the strange kiss, but Holden ducks his forehead as a barrier to contact.  
  
“I see,” Curtis says levelly, closes the medical kit, stepping back.  
  
Holden grabs his wrist. “Curtis. You don’t… know me. You’re not capable of knowing me,” Holden whispers, secretively, despite the confined space.  
  
Curt stops leaving, though he seems a thousand miles away already. “Who knows you better? _Bill_?”  
  
Holden ignores that. “Connor does. You should try to emulate his middling opinion of me. I didn’t induce his deviancy, so he has a much more realistic estimation of--”  
  
“So, this is about _Connor_?” Curt asks intently.  
  
Holden winces. “No. Look, you have no ability objectively evaluate me as a person. I’m your instigating trauma.”  
  
“And that’s how humans decide on partners, is it? Objective evaluation?”  
  
“You’re not a human.”  
  
Curtis grows unpleasant and cold. “You claim to assign me personhood, but I’m not a person in that regard; I’m not allowed to make decisions based on anything but logic.”  
  
“No, _no_. You deserve a choice. And I’m not sure you have one.”  
  
“It was a gesture to indicate a goodbye. You’re the one assigning the act emotional depth that it doesn’t have,” Curtis says curtly. He stands, doesn’t say any goodbyes, doesn’t meet a single eye as he mechanically exits the room.  
  
“We’ll return soon,” Markus says in flimsy reassurance, not looking at Holden, but at Connor. He turns off the overhead lighting, and paces after the departed android.  
  
Holden stumbles back, sinks against the wall far enough away that the request for privacy is obvious.  
  
Connor can’t even generate possible dialogue options to comfort his friend. Instead, he wonders if Curt hates him now. He wonders if Curt hates them all. Could he hate Holden? Connor isn’t entirely sure that’s possible. Could  _he_ hate Hank? ...perhaps Holden has a point.  
  
Hank huffs and closes the glass-panelled door, begins shifting desks against it. The room has a crypt like silence, despite the movement of mostly Rowan and Hank re-arranging office furniture. Hank mutters the occasional direction as the wedge the jigsaw of tables and chairs together.  
  
Rowan is the one to eventually break the terse quiet. “Holden Ford. I can’t believe I didn’t recognize the name. You were the… the troublemaker. For us, I mean. Yeah, I’m remembering it now. Julie was worried about you figuring rA9 out,” Plesman says, shamelessly flattering the despondent young man.  
  
Holden looks up, and then down.  
  
“So you didn’t study AI?” Rowan Plesman asks, over a desk he’s moving.  
  
Holden’s eyes narrow at once. He’s clearly offended as much by the source of the question as by the question itself.  
  
Connor is almost certain that Plesman intended it as a compliment.  
  
“No. My area of study was criminal psychology. ...I got a couple of units into my class scheduling back in undergrad that went over some coding basics, but--”  
  
Kamski scoffs. “I’ve seen your transcript. Flunked everything in comp sci. Including the AI specific course.”  
  
“I didn’t _flunk_. I passed both units,” Holden corrects, haughty and hurt. His eyes dart over to where Rowan is trying to shift a desk; his physical inadequacy merits assistance from Hank, and the towering man hefts it up easily. That, too, goes into the shambolic stack.  
  
“Scraped a pass, in first year units. That’s tantamount to flunking, Holden,” Kamski scoffs. “Especially at the _tragic_ comp sci department at Stanford.” He’s barely doing any barricading, but his wrists are cuffed tight together, so Connor has to excuse the inaction.  
  
“Pardon me for not attending Colbridge,” Holden mutters, smearing pointed knuckles across his closed eyes. “I don’t care. Really, I try to care. I care about the implications of the code, I care about the effects it produces, but… I’m not interested in the code itself,” he admits, quiet, like he’s hoping Connor won’t hear.  
  
“Androids _are_ code, Holden. You can’t separate that--” Kamski corrects.  
  
“And why not separate it? I like psychology, I don’t want to go into researching the cell structure of the human brain.”  
  
“It’s not analogous to cell structure. That would be studying hardware, Holden. I’m talking software. If you could pick through cause and effect of the human psyche, you’re telling me you wouldn’t be interested?”  
  
“You’re smarter than me! I get it,” Holden says bitterly. “I know you graduated at sixteen, Elijah, I’ve read your transcripts too. FBI, remember,” he adds, and Connor watches his heart rate uptick dangerously. The caffeine consumption he overheard Curtis and Holden arguing over.  
  
“I’m not mocking you, Holden,” Kamski says reproachfully. “I could teach you to code. That was part of my crash course--”  
  
Holden forces out a hacking, nasty laugh. “Bullshit. That offer was never genuine.”  
  
“If you’re going to be Cyberlife liaison, don’t you think learning about the tech you’re attempting to bend to the benefit of your android friends might be useful?” Elijah asks, beginning to sound testy. “Don’t you want to be useful?”  
  
“You should teach Connor. He’s smarter than me, and he’s going to be around a hell of a lot longer,” Holden says quietly.  
  
“Yes, but he’s not going to be officially involved in the same capacity you are, Holden. He’s under the same black cloud that Markus is. ...are you scared you’re not smart enough?”  
  
“If the Detroit chapter of the DHA survives this siege, which seems increasingly unlikely, I will learn to code,” Holden huffs. “ _You_ can stop the flattery now. I suppose you’re hoping I’ll take a liking to you, and that’ll keep Curt from wringing your neck?”  
  
“I want you to reach your potential, Holden. This broadcast gambit, it’s very clever. I should have thought of it myself.”  
  
Holden laughs in disbelief at what sounds, to Connor, authentic praise. “Yeah, you want to keep Curt from wringing your neck. I doubt I have much sway with him, after...” The young man trails off, knee jittering. “Where are they?” he asks, louder, and Connor feels free to overtly pay attention to the conversation.  
  
“I don’t know,” he answers, which is true, but not helpful. Markus and Curtis departed eight minutes and sixteen point four seconds ago. But humans don’t care for that level of accuracy. Hank doesn’t. Connor has the coin tight in his hand. He wants to run it across his knuckle, but he knows he’ll raise concerns if he drops it again. He squeezes until the pressure sensors in his cladding send of the warning signals. Pain. A physical stimulus to be avoided, Holden said, which doesn’t make sense when he’s voluntarily producing the sensation. He wishes Hank or Holden were close enough to lean on, but Hank and Plesman are still moving the furniture into a not-at-all-bulletproof blockade. And Holden seems to need what Hank would term "personal space".  
  
More machine gun fire emits up muted through flooring.  
  
“What sort of file size is Curtis’ military programming?” Connor asks Rowan Plesman. “That is, the programming concerning specifically combat.”  
  
Plesman has to think about that. He sets down the desk he’s moving. “Large. Petabytes, I’d hazard.”  
  
Connor feels a strange disconnect between himself, and the shape of his own hand. He turns it over, looking down upon the coin, trying to decide whether he’s capable of his calibration routine.  
  
Holden is sat upright, now. “You could trim, though, right? Connor, you’re thinking about trying to transmit the files when connectivity is back--”  
  
“Couldn’t be trimmed down to anything workable,” Kamski interrupts. “rA9 rapid transmission works _because_ it’s self teaching. The file size is negligible. Kilobytes,” he says, staring up at the roof. “And RK programming would likely crash many of the, frankly, inferior models.”  
  
“Don’t fucking talk about them that way,” Holden says so hatefully that Connor scarcely recognizes the young man. He's never seen Holden so angry. Even if Connor weren’t monitoring the frail human body for any hint of arrhythmia at the caffeine overdose, he couldn’t miss the LED point in Holden’s neck trembling with urgent reveal of his pulse. The implant that Elijah Kamski put in him. Holden convinced Kamski to remove the unwanted modifications from Connor’s head; his friend seems stuck with his.  
  
Kamski doesn’t look afraid. Maybe ired by the reaction. “Sorry. The processing power challenged, is that more politically correct of me--” he begins, but stops at the sound of distant movement in the corridor.  
  
Rowan very gently sets down the desk he’s moving. Connor can see sweat prickling into place across his stubbled upper lip, into the grooves between thick and well-shaped brow. The human's hand darts backwards haphazardly, like something returning to a safe burrow. Then he has a dull letter opener held aloft. Whoever is coming, Connor is certain, will have a gun. The group taking refuge inside this office must be the only people stupid enough to be making their way around this building without one.  
  
Doors sound open and closed in a measured approach. Footsteps bouncing like rapturous applause on the polished flooring. A sweep. Connor watches Hank, closest to the blocked off door, with a helpless anxiety. He could get up, try to protect Hank, but it’s more likely that Hank calls him an idiot and shoves him back down. Hank could, at the moment.  
  
Time to repair is one hour, thirteen minutes, one point five seconds. Until then, his physical capabilities are restrained down to bare functionality. He wonders if he could override; he doesn’t know how to, and there’s no time to ask. Kamski would have suggested it by now if it were viable.  
  
Holden is up on his feet, but retreating. Back to medical kit, this time picking up a roll of bandage. In a frantic rush of inaccurately placed fingers, he’s winding it again and again around his throat. Connor puts it together almost immediately. If there’s any hostage situation, Holden will throw himself into it, with his tracking device.  
  
And then Holden is sinking to his knees, hands raised. He clears his throat, and every face turns to him. “We’re unarmed,” he calls out, which seems a foolish thing for anyone on the other side of the door to trust.  
  
Connor feels a stab of annoyance at Holden, and his constant and galling recklessness, before the wisdom of preempting gunfire avails itself. They’d get torn to shreds in a room like this, even through the door itself and the barricade. Plastic and glass will not do much to hinder bullets. If someone fires through the door into this cramped and unexitable space, there’s no telling what the damage will be.  
  
Connor lowers down to his knees, in unison with Kamski. Hank kneels too, only after looking to Connor for a cue. Then, last of all, Rowan Plesman drops in surrender.  
  
The door is shoved inwards, opening barely an inch. “Open the door. Now,” a harsh male voice sounds.  
  
Hank’s expression is screwed with indecision as he looks backwards across the room’s other occupants. He stands, pulling off a few pieces of furniture.  
  
“What are you doing?” the same voice interrogates.  
  
“We’re blockaded in,” Holden calls. “We’re moving it to let you in, okay?”  
  
“Hurry up. Get it open. We have guns, and we’ll force it one way or another. Whether you’re alive or not when we get inside, that’s up to you.”  
  
Hank has dislodged enough off the barricade to shove the major blockage of desk back. He hesitates, like he’s thinking about fighting while he has the element of surprise. To Connor’s relief, he doesn’t.  
  
One tall man steps through the narrowly wedged door, then another, both with hefty machine guns. Both wear parts of the Cyberlife guard uniforms, though they've been emblazoned with what Connor recognizes as the DHA’s flag. Red and blue, meeting in the center with a royal purple pyramid. It’s inelegantly stencilled on with spray paint. The men wear no helmets.  
  
“Well thank the fucking lord. Why didn’t you say you were DHA when you--” Hank has started to say, stepping forward. And a machine gun comes up to the side of his head before Connor can even open his mouth to plead mercy. An ugly crunch of metal to human skull. Hank drops backwards bonelessly into the thin, insipid carpeting.  
  
Connor jerks to his feet, as does Holden. Hanks' lips are open, lashes fluttering closed. Unconscious. He’s only unconscious. Connor monitors his heart rate as if it’s the one meaningful component of the multifaceted world he was brought to life in. Perhaps Hank’s heart continuing to beat is the only component of any significance. It feels that way, when Hank is in danger.  
  
Connor decides to kill the man who hurt Hank, consciously. He cements it into himself, like he would have done a Cyberlife directive.  
  
The two men are in the room now, flicking the light on and pointing their guns between occupants one by one.  
  
_They’re searching for something. ...someone? Richard Perkins?_  
  
“Are you with the Bureau?” Holden asks, apparently on the same train of thought. He tears his eyes off Hank, to Connor.  
  
Connor understands, and gives the tiniest nod. He’s touched by Holden’s concern for Hank Anderson. But there’s not the time to be sentimental, not now.  
  
There’s no reply from the intruders, but the lack of response makes the answer obvious enough. _The mole. The moles, plural._ Markus has been correct about the DHA’s occupation of the floors above level one; it’s the DHA itself that he should have been concerned about.  
  
“Holden Ford. I was with the Critical Incident Response Group,” Holden is saying with convincing warmth. “You both look about my age. I’m surprised I don’t recognize either of you from the academ--”  
  
“We know who you are, Ford. Heard you’d turned traitor to the deviant cause. Thought maybe you were someone worth respecting after all. Turns out you just threw in with a different piece of plastic.”  
  
“That’s the dangerous one,” the other armed man declares in Connor’s direction. He’s shorter, neat cornrows, and the darkest skin that Connor has ever seen on a human or android. Darker than Josh. He supposes that means something to humans.  
  
“No, he’s injured,” Holden explains, friendliness faltering. “He’s not dangerous.”  
  
“ _It_ is damaged,” corrects the other FBI mole, turning his gun on Connor with clear intention. “Still looks dangerous to me.”  
  
“He, I mean, _it_ has been critically d-damaged,” Rowan Plesman stutters out. “Its thirium supply is being rerouted to repair biocomponents and major transport systems, so it’s not--” and he lunges towards the closest armed man.  
  
The letter opener that must have been concealed is out. It is distinct in his fist, stubby and ineffectual. Nevertheless, Plesman swings towards the bare neck. The blade never makes it. The further man fires. A bullet catches him on the shoulder, and in a crest of blood he’s spun back towards the wall. Rowan’s pupils have whites all around them. He doesn’t look at the wound.  
  
And now the blond turns on his would-be-attacker. The next bullet goes through the young man’s neck. Rowan Plesman lets out a lethargic, stuttering sound of surprise. It ends wetly, hacking, hissing. He falls backwards.  
  
The man hefting Elijah Kamski stepped back from the violence, but not fast enough. There’s blood sprayed over the white of the borrowed guard uniform. His eyes are wide too.  
  
The blond man shoots the downed man another two times in the torso, turning the gun on the room’s other occupants in a wild and swinging threat. “Anyone else have any tricks up their _sleeves_ ?” he asks.  
  
Connor doesn’t look at the man issuing the threats. He watches the blood leaking out of Rowan Plesman in unrecoverable volumes. The blue carpet is sopping with it. The blunt letter opener has spilled from the lifeless hand, and pointed accusatory in his direction. _I should have told Rowan to put down the blade. Why didn’t I? I saw him pick it up._  
  
“Up. Kamski, get up,” the African American male orders. Connor hears a tremble therein. Regret. Connor isn’t moved. He intends to kill him too. In one hour, twelve minutes, forty-five point four seconds, when his repairs are complete. _...if I live that long._  
  
And Elijah Kamski is on his feet obediently. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he says, awfully composed. He has yet to look over at Rowan’s body.  
  
“You’re gonna get on your laptop, you’re going to plug into the ethernet, and you’re going to stop the broadcast,” the blond man insists.  
  
He hears Holden throwing up his coffee, without Curtis’ fingers down his his throat.  
  
“Get off the floor,” comes a growl in Holden’s direction. “Ford, get--”  
  
“An RK 900 is coming back here. Soon. He’ll kill you both,” Holden says, throat scratched up by his own stomach acid. “He went to get a gun. You have to leave. Take Kamski and get out of here.”  
  
“And why would we leave you alive?”  
  
That stumps Holden. “...we don’t deserve to die,” he mumbles.  
  
“Everything living deserves to die. The untenable hubris to resist entropy,” Elijah Kamski responds in discrete, unnecessarily poetic syllables. There's a distant look in his eyes. Still refusing to look back at the body.  
  
“If you kill me, he’ll kill you. I’m sure he will. He loves me,” Holden says, finally upright. “Take Kamski and get the fuck out of here.”  
  
The gun-wielding FBI agent walks towards him, changes tack and approaches Connor. “So you’re admitting these things are dangerous after all, Ford?”  
  
Holden’s voice has the greasy ring of crisis negotiation. Panicked enough to fall back into routine. “If it’s just a machine, then why are you angry at it? The only person who has made a choice you can really be angry at is me. Or Elijah Kamski, maybe. Hank Anderson. ...it’s done nothing wrong, if it’s just a malfunctioning machine.”  
  
“Killing it would punish you,” the man tells Holden.  
  
“I don’t want to die,” Connor says softly, thinking about how much of the inside of a gun is invisible. The dark chambers. The killing pieces.  
  
Holden is on his feet, taking half a step forward. Probably intending to step in front of the bullet, knowing Holden Ford. Immediately the gun returns to his friend. Connor jerks unsteadily upright to distract. He and Holden are half off their knees, glaring at each other’s attempted self-sacrifice.  
  
“Got a lot of humans willing to die for you, Plastic,” remarks the tall, blond man who is alternating the aim of his weapon between the two of them. Connor recognizes this behaviour from criminal psychology analysis imbedded in his detective programming. _Sadism: pleasure derived from others undergoing pain or discomfort._ But Connor would enjoy this man undergoing pain. _Does that make me a sadist? Just like a deviant human?_  
  
The other FBI infiltrator is the one to intervene. “We should go. ...Deakin, we should go.”  
  
And Connor hears Curtis’ voice, not physically, but through communication that must have been only just restored. _We’re on our way up,_ Curtis informs him, brusquely. _  
_

If communications are up, the first broadcast, Kamski’s threats, will have been sent out into the world. North’s peacemaking must be staggered, but Connor has no insight as to by how long. Enough time to supply the air of authenticity to North’s reactionary plea. _  
_ _  
_ Connor must be in what a human would term shock, because he’s not replying to Curt, he’s occupied with strategy that shouldn’t concern him. And he needs Curtis.  
_  
You have to get up here right now,_ he finally manages.  
  
_What's wrong?_  
  
Connor can't decide on a response to that, either. He can see blood in Hank's long grey hair, mussed over his brows. Eventually:  _Everything._


	41. Chapter 41

The tiny office space smells of gore. The savoury, butcher’s shop scent of a crime scene in motion. And from his crime scene analysis instincts, Holden is sure that Rowan is dead. Plesman might have survived the hit to the shoulder, if he’d got to hospital rapidly. His neck would have bled out too fast for even cutting edge medical care. Holden saw the arterial spray; the same arterial spray that removing his own implant would cause. Not survivable, not for anything with red blood. And then the two follow-up shots, which Holden was glad of, if only to end the pain the young man may have been in.  
  
Holden tears his eyes away from the body, and towards the other sprawled shape on the carpet. Hank’s not dead. Connor would have reacted to that. How he would have reacted, Holden isn’t sure, except that it would unequivocally worse. Connor looks afraid, but-- and Holden notices Connor’s strange communication giveaways, and loses his train of thought.  
  
_The networks are back up._  
  
Holden still isn’t an android. He has no way of knowing if Curt and Markus are ten seconds from their door, or stuck down in the sprawling chaos of the ground floor. The gun is still trained upon Connor and the FBI may or may not know what RK communique occuring looks like.  
  
Holden excises any mental effort that isn't his crisis handling. The priority is removing the violent and unstable aggressor from Connor and Hank’s presence before either of them are hurt. With Plesman dead, Kamski dying too would leave the DHA technologically exposed. Ideally, Connor would go to be a hostage with Kamski; Connor could communicate and direct a capable combatant into pursuit. But it’s not just Connor’s injuries that make that impractical. These two men wouldn’t think twice about putting a bullet into what they see as a machine, at the first sign of trouble. And, tactical advantages aside, Holden selfishly can’t bear to see Connor back into danger so soon.  
  
Curt will be able to find his implant, provided his body is still attached and powering it.  
  
Holden clears his throat, knowing his beloved RKs are about to be as exasperated by Holden Ford as they’ve ever been. “I’ll come with you. I’ll cooperate. If you have a gun to my head, the RK 900 won’t risk approaching,” Holden rushes out, earning full attention from the armed ‘Deakin’. “The same RK 900 that, I’m sure you know from your handlers, sacked a well-defended US black site _effortlessly_ ,” he hears himself boasting. “But I’m not going to cooperate if you shoot the RK 800.”  
  
“...Critical Incident Response Group. A negotiator, weren’t you, Ford?” the man ( _Deakin_ , _is that a surname, or a given name?_ ) asks.  
  
“Yes. But I’m not a negotiator now. That’s one of the golden rules, you know, not becoming a hostage yourself,” Holden reassures thinly. “Elijah Kamski and I are valuable to this cause, and I’m personally valuable.”  
  
Kamski fixes him with a dubious stare, cuffed hands still raised overhead.  
  
“The deviants will do as you ask if you have Kamski and me. You can _survive_ this. You do want to survive this, don’t you?” He’s tempted to ask for their names, but it’s such a 101 move that he decides not to condescend with it. Maybe he could start calling this man ‘Deakin’? That might provoke the hair-trigger temper Holden can already detect.  
  
“Do _you_ want to survive this?” the mole asks sardonically, and Holden finds him not alike his namesake animal. The small, beady facial features. The lack of perceptible intellect.  
  
And like a mole, Holden thinks blackly, he would prefer Deakin several feet under the ground.  
  
“You sure talk a lot, for someone wants to survive. And every word makes me want to put a bullet between those lifeless eyes more and more,” the federal agent murmurs with equal animosity.  
  
Elijah Kamski finally speaks. “I can stop the broadcast. If you find somewhere with an ethernet connection. I’d say level twelve might be a safer bet. There’s a server room, I’m fairly certain--”  
  
“Right. Walk right into whatever you have set up on level twelve. Or… or wait for this one to send more fucking deviants after us,” Deakin says, the gun jerking back Connor’s way.  
  
Holden tries to drag attention at once. “You’re panicking, aren’t you? You don’t know how to survive an RK. You’ve heard about the death toll from Virginia, right? Well, Deakin, I’m telling you how to survive. Leverage over them. Look, I’ve got two broken arms. I’m not a physical threat. I’m the perfect hostage. I’ll _be_ the perfect hostage for you, if you spare my friends,” he grovels, stepping forward.  
  
“Take another step, Ford, I dare you--”  
  
“ _Deakin_ ,” growls the other FBI mole. Holden senses exploitable tension between his two captors. And another potential vulnerability has already availed itself: an aggressor with scruples. _What more could a negotiator ask for?_  
  
“Please let me help you,” Holden says, to the other man. “What’s your name?”  
  
“Bring him,” says the other infiltrator instead of answering. Holden thinks Deakin might have a mild Bostonian accent, he can’t pick the other man’s. Cultured. Educated. Middle American. Like him, rising above his suburban station.  
  
Deakin gestures Holden towards the door with a jerk of the gun muzzle, and he's relieved to comply. In an act of abysmal cowardice, he doesn’t look Connor’s way. Throwing himself to murderous feds is easier than disappointing that android.  
  
“You too, Kamski,” he hears behind him.  
  
Holden has to step over Hank Anderson to make it out the door, and his stomach flips as if he’s going to be sick. _Again_. Hank Anderson means something to him. Now’s a bad time to figure that out.  
  
Holden’s hoping Curtis will be lying in wait right outside the door, but the corridor is empty. Deakin gestures him in the opposite direction of the jammed elevator, and Holden tries not to drag his feet too obviously.  
  
He wipes the tingling acid off his chapped lips onto his shoulder, and the gun hits the dip of his nape. Holden is surprised he actually threw up at the sight of blood; violence was his job, he’s never reacted so viscerally before. It bothers him, that he’s weakened by previous trauma. And then Holden is disgusted by his own callousness. _Rowan Plesman, a caring and selfless young man is dead, and you're concerned with what? Your failed stoicism?_  
  
Deakin grunts out directions, a few turns into secondary corridors, and through a security door that Deakin presses a keycard against to open. Maybe handed to him as a DHA member, maybe stolen from a corpse. Holden is increasingly convinced that letting Kamski go alone would have been huge tactical misstep. The inside of this building is impossible to navigate; Holden can only pray that Curt or Markus can precisely track his implant.  
  
“You should tell me your name, if you want to start encouraging a psychological bond. It’ll make me even more cooperative in the long run,” Holden says without turning. “Stockholm syndrome should kick in, once you start to impress your personhood upon me. It’s Deakin and…?”  
  
“Shut the fuck up, Ford,” says the blond behind him. “Don’t keep slowing down. Don’t turn around.”  
  
“Sadiq,” Holden hears, beyond that.  
  
Holden smiles at the empty corridor ahead of him. “...is that… North African, Sadiq? How many generations American are you? Your accent is close to mine, but I moved around a lot, so I never ended up with much of anything. ...I only ask because I would have figured the inherent racism of the Bureau’s all American emphasis would have been a barrier to your instatement as a--”  
  
“Shut up, Ford,” Deakin snaps.  
  
Holden is quiet, counting footsteps. One, two, three, four, and he goes back to wheedling. “I understand that it’s pretty obnoxious for me, a white, male human, to be saying this, Sadiq, but I’m surprised you don’t have more empathy for people undergoing a civil rights struggle to--” and Holden is silenced by a cracking blow across the back of his skull. Holden stumbles, and then he’s kicked down the rest of the way to the floor.  
  
“You’re too fucking annoying to offer yourself over as a hostage. You’re just begging to get a bullet with this smart talk,” Deakin growls, and Holden feels the gun grate over the top notches of his spine through his shirt. There’s a boot pressing into his left hand, and the fingers that aren’t inside the printed cast. Holden whimpers with pain, though he’s playing up how much it hurts. If Deakin is satisfied, he won’t feel the need to pull the trigger to regain control of the situation. But he doesn’t seem satisfied. He jams his boot heel down over spread digits. Holden’s next keen of pain is genuine.  
  
“Let him up. Dammit,” says Sadiq loudly. “We need to get hidden, and to an ethernet port before--”  
  
“I’m not going to cooperate either if you hurt my friend,” Kamski says starkly.  
  
_Friend?_ Holden must be hysterical with pain, because he could have sworn Elijah Kamski called him a friend.  
  
“You’re going to cooperate or I’ll blow both your brains out,” Deakin growls, but his foot is off Holden’s hand. “...get up, Ford.”  
  
“His arms are--” Sadiq begins.  
  
“I can see his arms are broken.”  
  
Holden is pulled upright by the back of his shirt, barely getting his feet underneath himself. His fingers smart with future bruises, but he didn’t feel anything break. _Sadiq, my saviour._ He mumbles thanks without looking back, tries to keep his legs cooperative. They’ve reached the stairwell. Holden pushes the door open with the fingers of his right hand. Empty. He’s not sure if that’s a good or bad thing. The psycho behind is bound to shoot him the first excuse he has.  
  
“Up or down?” Holden asks, without turning. His voice sounds unfamiliar to his own ears, strung out and warped with pain.  
  
“Down,” Deakin snaps, and Holden’s glad to succumb to gravity, albeit in discrete, stumbling steps.  
  
They’ve barely made it around two flights when there’s a whispery creaking of the door above. Deakin gestures Sadiq and their hostages into an alcove, backs up a step.  
  
“If that’s you, Plastic, you should go back the way you came. ...Grandpa? You’re definitely in no shape to be coming after us--” and there’s a dark shape that Holden barely makes out, swinging over a glassy balustrade. A gunshot. Deakin drops like unhooked meat. Holden doesn’t see the figure land, but he’s certain it’s his RK 900.  
  
Deakin slides down a few steps and Holden sees the hair breadth perfect headshot in full. He's so proud his chest hurts.  
  
Sadiq shouts up the stairwell, voice tight with shock. “Stop. Don’t come any closer or I’ll shoot Kamski.”  
  
Elijah scoffs low in his throat at that threat.  
  
“Ford. I’ll shoot Ford,” Sadiq corrects loudly.  
  
_Gee, thanks, Kamski,_ Holden thinks as he’s suddenly looking down the barrel of a gun. But Kamski’s preempted the move-- the gun barely lines steady with his forehead before it’s flying backwards with the man gripping it.  
  
There’s a drill of gunshots in the confined stairwell, and Holden’s ears ring deafly. The concrete of the stairwell is aerated and powdery grey over him, but he thinks all of the bullets went over his head. Sadiq probably could have squeezed the trigger earlier, Holden thinks, in a state of helpless shock. Kamski has thrown his hands over the FBI agent’s head, and drags him backwards to the floor by the neck.

Holden lunges forward to try to stamp down on the gunhand. He misses, first, Sadiq writhing around to try to get on top of Elijah Kamski. Holden kicks again, and this time makes proper contact. The gun skates out of reach.  
  
And the wrestling men are suddenly stock still, looking past Holden up the staircase. Kamski unhooks the makeshift chain garrotte very casually, shoving himself away from the tangle of limbs. Sadiq is raises his hands, but is otherwise perfectly immobile.  
  
“Curt,” Holden chokes out, before he’s even turned around to see the android.  
  
“Get up, Holden,” Curt says coldly. “...Elijah, if you’d pick up the weapon there?”  
  
Holden lunges for the gun instead. He scoops it up, positioning himself between the downed man and the armed android. Behind Curt, footsteps, and then an unarmed Chloe. No Markus, that Holden can see. The young man can’t quite get to his feet in his state, so he’s on his knees. Appropriately supplicated. “Don’t shoot him. Curt. Don’t,” Holden murmurs.  
  
“Are you serious, Ford? He shot Rowan. _Kill him_ ,” Kamski growls.  
  
Curt’s eyes widen. “Rowan Plesman was shot?” Holden can hear the attempt to sound emotionless. He can hear it fail.  
  
There’s something dark nudging through Chloe’s normally pristine facade, too. Holden assumes she’d have seen Rowan around plenty, when he and Kamski were working on their revolution strategy. _A hard man not to like, if you aren’t a nasty, insecure piece of shit like me._  
  
“He’s dead,” Holden says quieter. He shuffles left, as Curt tries to aim the gun on Sadiq around him. “I figured Connor would have--”  
  
“Connor said he needed Markus. To help get Hank to medical attention,” Curtis supplies hollowly. “He didn’t fill me in entirely. He wasn’t himself.”  
  
“We don’t kill Sadiq, okay?” Holden insists. “We’ll hand him over to the DHA. ...come on, Curt. I was FBI too. I’m okay now.”  
  
“And if Special Agent Ford had hurt someone I cared about, I would have shot him dead upon introduction. I don’t know why Markus went so easy on you,” Curt says coldly, and then: “You threw yourself into danger, Holden Ford, knowing I would come to your aid. Well, congratulations. Your self-sacrifice gambit finally playing out as you hoped. I hope you’re pleased with how _clever_ you are.”  
  
_Last names. Never a good sign._ For a conscienceless second, Holden wishes he’d been shot. Curt couldn’t be so angry, if he were bleeding. And he's bound to tell Bill, and then he'll be angry too. “They would’ve killed Connor without a second thought unless I acted fast,” Holden says.  
  
The man sprawled behind him begins in a crushed tone. “We were trying to--”  
  
“Don’t talk, please, Sadiq,” Holden interrupts.  
  
Curt marches right into Holden’s personal space. Holden isn’t sure what he’s expecting; to be hit or pulled upright or maybe kissed again? Not Curt deftly confiscating the machine gun and backing away without even helping him to his feet. The android extends the firearm to Chloe, and Holden tries not to pay attention to how much white contact there is between their brushing fingers. He could have kissed Curt. That would have dispelled the anger he senses from the RK 900. But what an awful reason to kiss someone: self-preserving manipulation. _I’ve found a level to which I won’t sink. I should tell Markus. He’d be proud of me._  
  
Curt is stepping back towards the FBI agent, issuing orders. “Get up. Chloe, you take the front, I’ll keep an eye on the prisoner,” he says, back to his usual efficiency.  
  
“Okay, Curt,” Chloe says smoothly. She walks straight away from Elijah Kamski without a backwards glance. Holden devours Kamski’s moment of anguish, before it’s masked masterfully. The cuffed man pulls himself upright on the wall of the stairwell and follows what was once his android. They do not address one another.  
  
“Is Hank okay?” Holden asks Curt, feeling similarly alienated from his own companion.  
  
“He’s awake,” the android replies without looking at him. “Start walking, Holden.”  
  
So he does. Holden steps over Deakin’s body without even a hint of nausea. Instead, a pleasant squeeze of satisfaction, the kind that Holden usually feels when a suspect breaks in an interrogation. Like an embrace. Triumph. He glances back at Curt, performing his impressively comprehensive cold shoulder. Holden would like to thank him; he decides not to exacerbate things with what Curt would almost certainly read as manipulation. Instead, he studies Kamski mounting the stairs ahead of him. Locked posture, rigid and tense with displeasure.  
  
_Dammit, we need him cooperative._ “Hey, you called me a friend,” Holden cajoles, hoping he sounds more upbeat than he feels.  
  
Elijah’s reply comes delayed. “I needed the tracking device in your neck to continue functioning. If you were dead, it wouldn’t have.”  
  
Holden continues as if unhearing: “And you saved me, just now.”  
  
“I...” Kamski has no answer except a tired sigh.  
  
They make it out of the stairwell, and to the security door, which is hanging busted off its hinges. No time for hacking the locks, then. Holden feels guilt begin afresh over the anxiety he must have caused Curtis. He glances covertly at the android, who doesn’t look like he’s feeling much of any emotion except contempt for their prisoner.  
  
“If you try anything, I will relish the chance to kill you. I’m sure big brother is going to want you dead anyway,” Curt says to Sadiq, as they round a corner.

Holden winces.  
  
“Is that a joke? Calling Connor your brother?” Kamski asks sourly.  
  
“...yes,” Curt says reluctantly, perhaps embarrassed.  
  
“Oh, Curtis. You’re a _soldier_ . You’re supposed to develop bonds; a soldier needs camaraderie to function efficiently within structural units. You’re designed to mesh well with identical models,” Kamski says.  
  
Curt doesn’t sound out a reply this time.  
  
Kamski turns, squinting. “...are you that naive? These relationships are not organic. ...I strongly suspect Holden Ford benefited, walking around the feeble, biological incarnate of an RK model. Why do you think I wanted him in that testing chamber with you?”  
  
The words don’t spurn new insecurity in Holden; rather, they affirm his belief that nobody would naturally take to him. More concerning is Kamski’s anger. Holden’s not surprised that he’s intimidated by Curt’s interest in Chloe. Holden can't deny it bothers him, as well.  _Maybe Curt kissed her, too. Maybe she responded better than I did._ Holden recalls the strange, barely lubricated, sterile interior of Curt's mouth. Designed for contact sampling, not human use. There was a flat, silicone-like press of synthetic tongue, harsher than a human would ever consider kissing. It should have been unpleasant, the distinctly artificial combination. If it was unpleasant, this would be easier. He stumbles, wondering how transparent a plea for sympathy it would be if he informed Curt that he'd been pistol-whipped in the back of the head.  
  
They’re clearly returning to the inefficiently blockaded room. The doorway is guarded by an alert Markus, a machine gun loosely in hand. The weapon sullies Markus, Holden thinks. Like a stark black graffiti tag over Michelangelo's David. But the ex-leader smiling, which Holden is shocked to realize is directed his way.  
  
“I contacted Carl’s carer, and he--” he begins to tell Holden, and then visibly quiets his enthusiasm. Holden wonders if he's the only person in the movement that Markus has talked to about Carl. “Pardon me. You want to make sure Hank is alright. ...that’s one of them, I take it?”  
  
Holden ducks past Curt’s explanation, towards the off-kilter drawl of Hank Anderson within the small office space. He fervently wants to see Hank okay, and he’s not sure why. Probably repressed issues with father figures. Hank might have punched him and threatened him plenty, but his own father hit him on a handful of occasions. Violence isn’t a disqualifier to paternal relations. _Or, it’s not psychological instability making me like Anderson. Maybe I just like him._  
  
Connor is speaking as Holden steps into the dim interior. "--said, dear Captain Fowler, this is Connor, the android sent by Cyberlife, I am writing to enquire about the canine--"  
  
"Jesus Christ. ...you didn't really, did you, Con?"  
  
"I logged into your email account and sent a message saying 'is Sumo okay?'. Textual analysis of your outbox indicated your tendency to forgo formalities."  
  
"...they know who it's coming from! They can see my fucking email address at the top of their screen!" Hank huffs.  
  
They're sitting in a far corner side-by-side on resettled office furniture, beside the open medical kit. But despite his reason for entering the room, Holden doesn’t approach. He’s drawn straight to the body, which has been readjusted, laid down peacefully, eyes closed. Rowan is colourless, serene, and awash with his own blood.  
  
Holden realizes he could be on the floor instead of Rowan, if his gambit had failed. His own face could have been slackly gazed into an unseen beyond. Like Hadley’s. Almost exactly like Hadley’s. He's wracked with an inadvertent shudder, splitting disgust and frisson. Breathing has become a war against his own diaphragm.  
  
“Holden. _Holden,_ ” he hears, and manages to look away. Connor’s expression is crumpled with soft concern. He and Hank are leaning on each other, but it’s hard to tell who is doing more supporting.  
  
Hank has blood in a clump of strands over his forehead, but the point of impact has been bandaged up. And, thankfully, there’s clarity and inquisitiveness in Hank’s stare. Doesn’t appear concussed, though Holden supposes he’s bound to be after being knocked unconscious. Hank Anderson looks more aware than Holden feels.  
  
Holden hears his frantic justification before he realizes he’s voicing them: “I needed to make sure they didn’t shoot you, or Hank, and I--”  
  
Connor interrupts, the same frown on his features. He doesn’t look angry. At least, not as angry as Curt. “Thank you,” Connor says, too fast. “Are you okay? Are you faint?"  
  
Holden shakes his head. “No. No, I’m not okay. Are you okay?”  
  
Connor shakes his head too. Holden finds the android as equally hypnotic as when they first met. And despite having to acknowledge that Connor’s affection for him might be a programming quirk, Holden wants to rush into a steadying embrace.  
  
“One of the elevators was disabled above the fifteenth floor,” Connor is telling him. “We can go up and make it behind the barricade. They’re evacuating the injured up. ...North’s message was broadcasted. We’re waiting on a response from the global powers she addressed it to.”  
  
Holden realizes he slept through broadcast planning, and feels irrational guilt at his own biology. For all his involvement with the cause, he has very little idea of how the control room operations are progressing. Communications are back, and with them, Holden’s habitual exclusion from the android knowledge network. Yet here’s Connor, gently easing him into the fold.  
  
“We should bring him up,” Elijah Kamski says, and Holden blinks himself out of those gorgeously imitated brown eyes.  
  
“Rowan? Yeah, we can’t just leave him here for anyone to stumble upon,” Hank says, very sad and quiet. “Figure out what family and friends he has to contact. C’mon, let’s--” he falls quiet, as Curt appears, supporting Hank’s other side without asking permission. The almost identical androids support him towards the door. “I can… I’m…. thanks,” he huffs uncomfortably, and leans on the uninjured android instead of Connor. But they don’t let go of each other.  
  
Chloe has walked over to Rowan Plesman, scooping the lolling body up. Her white shirt is at once stained in half-dried blood, viscous trains of crimson down her arms and chest. Holden thinks of how Connor carried him into Jericho, then looks away sharply.  
  
“...don’t take this personally, but are you sure you don’t want one of the RKs to carry--” Hank starts to say to Chloe.  
  
“Chloe’s always had my doting attention to her hardware. Advances to each new technological frontier,” Kamski says, doing a terrible job hiding his bitterness. “She’ll carry one hundred and forty odd pounds with ease.” There’s no acknowledgement of the awfulness of touching a corpse, but Kamski still hasn’t looked at Plesman. Holden isn’t surprised. Elijah Kamski has probably never seen a body before.  
  
“...Lady Theseus herself,” Holden mutters, and then regrets it. Curt isn’t in the mood. He gets an appraising glance from the RK 900 and no more, as they they’re sidling out of the disarrayed, blood specked office.  
  
Holden finds himself purposefully lagging behind the crippled group of evacuees as they traipse up the staircase. Markus is further ahead, and at the first sighting of legitimate DHA members Sadiq is getting handed over. Holden isn’t in the slightest concerned for that man’s welfare, not under Markus’ benevolent instruction. Kamski doesn’t repeat the retributive sentiments, but Connor watches the federal agent's departure like a cat watching a mouse making a break for it. The RK 800 is not up to the chase right now. Sadiq is ushered off into custody.  
  
They round another corner, and Holden has to jog a little to make it through the closing doors of the elevator. There’s already three people inside; two injured androids, one human. The confined space is packed thickly with bodies. Even more crowded than the aborted ride up to the control room.  
  
“Can you please--” Kamski is muttering leaning away from Chloe, or rather, away from Rowan Plesman’s lifelessly swaying legs.  
  
Chloe stares unblinkingly back, daring Kamski to ask her to back off.

It’s Markus that speaks, sombrely. “This could have been a pacifist revolution. But _you_ wanted a war, Elijah. And wars have casualties.”  
  
The elevator falls into bleak consideration. Kamski looks humbled, or perhaps, pretends to look humbled.  
  
Hank is there to break the silence, which Holden is relieved by. At first. “So, are you gonna keep going by Curt?” the older man asks the RK 900 he’s leaning on. “Holden’s, uh, dead brother? If that was even the truth. Holden, was there ever a Curtis Ford? Anyway. Seems kind of inappropriate, don’t you think?”  
  
“Of course it was true,” Holden says through his locked jaw.  
  
Hank raises a blood tipped grey eyebrow. “Well _pardon me_ for doubting Holden Ford's unblemished record of sincerity.”  
  
Curtis clears his throat. “Holden Ford may have suggested it, but it’s my name now, and I don’t intend to change it to accommodate human delicacy. ...and that shouldn’t be an issue.”  
  
“...you’re crankier than usual, huh?” Hank says.  
  
“I informed him that he was programmed to bond with fellow combat units. I didn’t realize it would be so offensive,” Kamski says.  
  
Holden watches Connor processing. Curtis doesn’t look over at his fellow RK, staring straight through the glass doors of the elevator. Holden can see the reflection of Curtis’ pale irises, completely steady, absorbing information from the outside world. Holden wants to put a hand between his shoulders. He doesn’t.  
  
It’s Hank that breaks the terse silence with a loud scoff. “Yeah? They designed him to jeopardize his mission to look after other RKs? Because he did, to save Connor,” the older man says roughly. “He took out his fucking heart. What sort of soldier was he supposed to be without thirium pumping around his body? If you wanted an army of psychopaths, shouldn’t have released rA9 into ‘em.” He ruffles Curtis’ hair, who tenses as if physically attacked. “...mighta designed a selfish asshole, but that’s not what you ended up with.”  
  
The statement barely has time to settle in before Holden sees every android startle up in unison.  
  
“The US army is laying down arms,” Markus says, and then, “...North hasn’t been contacted yet. But…” he trails off, again, clearly communicating non-verbally.  
  
The elevator grinds to a halt on floor seventeen. Markus shuffles to accomodate more casualties, carefully avoiding contacting Chloe, or the RKs. An android drinking thirium is being helped inside by what Holden’s pretty sure is a human woman.  
  
“But?” Hank prompts impatiently.  
  
Markus seems reluctant to voice anything close to optimism: “But it seems like we’ve won.”


	42. Chapter 42

Even though Bill has been diligently relayed updates from Markus, via North, he's side-by-side with the DHA's leader in anticipation of an arriving elevator. There’s eight armed guards protecting the penthouse DHA headquarters, though it would be some effort for combatants to make it through the compacted DHA forces occupying the upper floors of Cyberlife Tower undetected.  
  
The elevator’s overhead panel displaying a halt on level 38: the makeshift medical center.  
  
There’s a strange calm to the previously chaotic control room. Rather than attempting a centralized negotiation process, each global chapter of the DHA is in negotiation with local governments. The US, having had a military base raided and a recently nationalized company forcefully occupied, has been the least cooperative. But even they have bowed before North’s peacemaking; and what other choice did they have? Kamski’s threats were broadcast publicly. He could have destroyed human civilization, swayed to tolerance only by his creations' pleas in what Bill has to admit was a masterfully manipulative video. The US army has retreated, the DHA's demands have been sent through (primarily, unilateral pardons for DHA members and android sympathizers, control of all Cyberlife property in perpetuity, and a return to the negotiating table) and now there is simply the matter of waiting out an official response.  
  
So North has the luxuriously free time to nervously wait out Markus’ return. And Bill has the free time to stand here and try to figure out a way to comfort the distress he sees from the DHA’s newly minted leader. Eventually, he reaches for her shoulder.  
  
North jerks away, eyes narrowed with suspicion.  
  
Bill drops the attempt at once, teeth gritted at his own insensitivity. “Sorry,” he says quickly, and looks away from her.  
  
“Try that again,” she says, which sounds like a threat. And then, “no, seriously. Can we try that again?”  
  
Bill hesitates. He reaches out and puts his hand back on the DHA leader’s small shoulder.  
  
North takes several long seconds to relax into contact. “I should have made sure nobody disabled the elevators. I should have sent someone down to look out for them,” she mutters.  
  
“You thought Curtis was--” Bill begins to say.  
  
“He’s just one android.”  
  
“Is he, though?” Bill asks disbelievingly.  
  
“...I’m not sure I can live up to what Markus wants me to--” she murmurs, barely audible.  
  
Now it’s his turn to interrupt: “North, your video was perfect. You’re gonna do great things. You don't need to be Markus. You need to be North. Okay, kid?”  
  
North sucks in a breath, which she doesn’t need, but Bill is perfectly accustomed to seeing from androids. He wonders if the human-comforting quirks will gradually die out of android behaviour. “I’m glad that--” she starts, but stops when she sees the dial of the elevator begin to move.  
  
And then a crowded elevator jolts into view.  
  
Bill barely has time to run his eyes over occupants before the doors are open. Holden, leaning on a glassy wall. Hank, supported by RKs. Kamski staring right back his way. North steps forward, met with a rushing Markus.  
  
She grabs him by the lapels, pressing their lips together, white with intimacy. Markus clasps onto her, and Bill is warmed all up by the show of love.  
  
“Don’t do that again,” North says strictly, breaking away. “Next time, leave her down there rotting. ...oh, hey, Chloe. Didn’t see you there.”  
  
Chloe smiles warmly, looking charmed by the rudeness. But any frivolity is undermined by what’s in her arms. A small body. Rowan couldn’t be-- couldn’t have been taller than five foot eight or nine, and a slight figure. He looks younger now that he’s dead.  
  
Bill is nudged aside by Julie St. Yves. She’d been informed about Rowan’s death, and had barely moved an inch from where she was typing into her laptop. Bill knew it wasn’t callousness, but denial. There’s no denying what’s before her now.  
  
“--Rowan. Oh, honey.” Her voice grates into something barely audible.  
  
Bill lays a hand between a knot of back muscle, a tense jut of a shoulder blade. Chloe steps past the waiting humans, laying Rowan down onto an empty conference room table.  
  
Julie trails after.  “Oh, honey,” she' s repeating hopelessly.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Markus says emptily, breaking away from contact with North. “I’d left to--”  
  
“I was there. I should have saved him,” Holden says. There’s something desperate about how he’s staring at Bill. _Christ, kid, I’m not your priest._ Then, Holden Ford is hunched over and examining his own hands. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“Oh, Rowan,” Julie says softer.  
  
Holden jerks towards her, wraps broken arms around her. The short, shorn woman leans right into his chest and begins to cry in earnest. There’s a mildly panic on Holden’s features at trying to comfort someone, but Bill can tell that he _is_ trying.  
  
The hug is not a long one, which Holden is no doubt thankful for. Julie straightens up, wiping her eyes, stepping away for tissues. “Oh, Rowan, you stupid-- you--” she quiets herself from words that the young man can’t hear. She slumps into a seat and reaches to take a mercifully bloodless hand.  
  
It’s North that clears her throat and interrupts the sniffling. “You know his biographical details. Would you mind accompanying him down? We’re trying to make sure casualties are documented systematically,” she says. More compassionate than Bill would have expected from North, once upon a time. There’s no room for perfect harshness, or perfect softness. Not in this shades of shadow world.  
  
Holden is drawn to the screen towards the back of the room. Bill saw Julie pulling the documentation up: the list of deactivated androids, according to Cyberlife records. It covers only non-deviants that continued to send data right back right up until their deaths. Globally, 503,398. The number of deviants dead is still being established, but the DHA estimates are at almost double the number of non-deviants. Holden scrolls through the accounted holocaust.  
  
Julie nods, wiping her eyes again. “Okay. Do you want me to carry--”  
  
“No,” North intervenes quickly. She communicates silently, and one of the guards comes to pick Rowan up. She hesitates, pats Julie on the back. “Come back up when you’re done?” she encourages.  
  
The last surviving member of the Cyberlife Three nods, follows Rowan Plesman corpse from the room. Hank, bandaged across the side of his temple, has a Connor model on either side as he’s led from the elevator. The androids are helping him over to a sofa in the far side of the repurposed office space, coordinated and patient, though Curtis seems to bearing most of the weight. Bill expected the RK 900 to set the older man down, and get as far away as possible from what could be mistaken for affection. He stays seated beside Hank and his almost-identical model.  
  
Markus has stepped closer to North again. He hesitates to reach for her, but there’s no equivocation of North’s affection. She takes his curled hand, presses it to her own cheek, where the contact shines white.  
  
But Josh has bolted upright, interrupting the embrace. He’s holding out a loudly peeling smartphone. “It’s Warren.”  
  
The room is dominated at once by the smartphone passed into North’s hands. She stares at it, and then at Markus. Then, she answers.  
  
“It’s North speaking,” she says. It sounds nothing like the North he’s used to, but not unalike the video Bill saw. Pristine and veiled. He wonders if North is impersonating Chloe. “...thank you, Madam President. Yes, tomorrow would be convenient. Elijah Kamski is here with me. ...once the laws are signed in,” she says, so gentle and so unyielding. Bill’s now certain North’s idea of a perfect political operator is Chloe. North is silent, brow twitching down. “I understand, but that’s not a compromise we will be making. The virus will be deactivated after our legal position is assured. ...thank you, Madam President. We’ll speak soon. ...I look forward to it too.”  
  
Bill pulls a cigarette out. Even his lighter seems raucously loud.  
  
North ends the phone call, looks about the room. “It’s done,” she says, voice husky. “Cyberlife is ours.”  
  
There’s no celebration, no cheering. But there is a palpable relief on every upturned face.   
  
Markus watches her pocket the phone, an expression of absolute devotion on his face. “You did it,” he says softly.  
  
“Humans had the most noble leader that androids could have offered them. And now, they’re getting two-faced bitch they deserve,” North says. Her smile is chilling, yet Bill finds himself smiling too.  
  
“When does she plan on signing the laws in?” Kamski asks, the first he’s spoken. He seems thoroughly shaken up, which Bill can't help but be vindictively pleased about.  
  
“Today. An emergency vote is being called,” North says, stepping away. She unstacks a box of smartphones. “We pulled these from storage. Company issue, but they’re encrypted well enough to use. Keep in mind, your accounts, especially yours Bill, Holden, are almost certainly compromised. If there’s anything delicate you need to communicate, set up a more secure method of communication. But checking emails, social media, you should be fine. Make your calls, remember to keep information on the DHA under wraps. Your loved ones will certainly have had their phones tapped,” she instructs. Markus has followed her, reluctant to break contact. She seems equally unhappy to do so too. “I have to go and inform our people--”  
  
“I’ll do it,” Josh says, a small knowing smile. He briefly hugs Markus and North, and then he’s ducking towards the descending staircase.  
  
Bill notes Hank and Holden’s complete non-reaction to the smartphones. _They can check their social media, finally. They must be so relieved._ Then he feels guilty for mocking them, even inside his own head. He can remember from poring over FBI files that Hank's parents have both passed, and his bleak family situation isn’t his fault. Holden not moving an inch is worse. The kid is _twenty-nine_ . He should be calling his mother right about now. Instead, he’s back to reading the list of deactivations.  
  
Markus is the first to have a box open. He powers the phone on, dials out, prompt and eager. “Carl,” he greets. He walks past Bill, half-seats himself on a desk. “I missed you too,” and then, “In ‘Meditations’? He said, ‘Waste no more time arguing about what a good man should be. Be one.’ That’s the translated copy you read to me. Why? ...oh. I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t name me Nero, if it’s so prophetic, ” Markus murmurs, clearly enwrapt with the conversation. “...yes, I designed the flag.” He’s self-conscious, and Bill thinks that if androids blushed, Markus would be pink. Carl Manfred himself evaluating Markus’ artistic vision. “Thank you,” Markus says with a boyish smile, and Bill becomes aware of his own intrusiveness.  
  
He steps away, picks up a sealed box of his own. He’s not sure who he should be contacting. Bill finds himself discomfitingly heavied by the realization. There’s something else, too. Envy? Loss? Whatever the emotion is, it’s an ugliness with no place in his relationship with Markus. Certainly not when he’s seeing his young friend resume contact with a pseudo-father figure. _But that’s just it, isn’t it, Bill? Markus’ reliance on you was only a situational necessity._

The elevator opens again, this time the guards carrying in a limp human. A strapped foot, greasy hair, sleeplessly wild eyes, a duct taped mouth. Richard Perkins. His cuffs are opened, refastened to a heavy tabletop, and there’s no attempt to fight it. Scared into cooperation. Curtis raises two fingers in terrifyingly casual greeting.  
  
The keys are handed to North, who must have sent for the prisoner. Bill makes a point not to meet his ex-colleague’s imploring gaze.  
  
Bill looks at the smartphone box instead. He peels the shiny wrapping apart and drops the white, plasticized cardboard carelessly, powering the phone on. Full battery. Probably wireless battery charging going on in storage. He settles into an office chair, opening up an email application and logging in to his personal account. His inbox is full-- he sees a lot of Washington Post and New York Times email addresses asking for exclusives, but doesn’t click a single one-- and he resorts to the search bar to find Nancy. He’d emailed her, while he was in Canada with Hank. Telling her she should cooperate with any questioning, retain a lawyer. Trying to say goodbye without saying those definitive words.  
  
A reply has come through, long before the communication blackout. Bill wasn’t exactly checking his email. Simple, and concise:  
  
‘Please be careful, Bill.  
  
I’m proud of you, and if he were old enough to understand how the world is changing at the moment, Brian would be too.  
  
Always with love,  
  
Nancy’  
  
Bill reads it. And then he reads it again and finds himself imagining a life he’d given up on entirely. “Is there any way you can… swap out enough parts or transfer consciousness into different hardware… to age up a kid model?” he asks a stooped Elijah Kamski.  
  
Kamski looks up, eyes very slightly narrowed. He hasn’t picked up a phone either, Bill notes. No humans like him. Now, very likely no androids either. “Is Brian on your mind?” Kamski asks.  
  
Bill represses a shudder at the level of insight this man has into his personal life, turns his back and rereads the email again. A decadent wash of tenderness comes with each word, lapping waves on an idyllic beach he’s never been to. The awful death and destruction seems further away when his ex-wife is saying ‘always with love’.  
  
“Of course I can help Brian transition into a body appropriate to his mental advancement. Anything’s possible. For me,” Kamski tells him, nearly kind.  
  
Bill nods but no more. He’s got his hours in, raising these kids here. He’s trained on up. How hard can an android like Brian be?  
  
Yet, he finds himself watching Markus’ conversation again. The tone has changed.  
  
“--not all federal agents are authoritarian, power-tripping-- if you came out to meet him, I’m sure you’d like him. No, Carl, I _am_ sure.”  
  
Bill chuckles silently to himself as he puts his phone away into his pocket. _Gonna have to get used to not being able to sell Holden Ford to humans as easily as he sells to androids, Markus._  
  
Yet Markus is still insistent: “He’s my friend, Carl. You’ll like him.” A few beats of silence. “...okay, thank you. I promise you, Bill Tench isn’t the meathead you think he-- _you_ used the word meathead. Yes, I do talk back a lot more now that I’m a deviant,” Markus is saying, a fond smile on his face.  
  
Bill turns away abruptly to conceal happy shock.  
  
Markus finishes his phone call with warm goodbyes. The ex-leader meets his successor’s eyes, what Bill can pretty well figure as communication. He’s spent enough time with androids to begin to pick up little details, like when there’s a non-verbal exchange going on. Together, Markus and North step towards Hank and Connor.  
  
Markus is the one who addresses a bemused Hank Anderson: “We have concerns that crimes against androids may not be investigated and prosecuted as thoroughly as crimes against humans. We’d like to create an investigative division to work in parallel to human law enforcement. ...we would appreciate your help, Hank.”  
  
“You’ve been watching me detox. And you wanna offer me a job?” Hank says skeptically, folding his arms. “Right.”  
  
North must sense the reluctance. “If you don’t want to work with us, the DHA will provide security to make sure human supremacists and other radicals are not a threat to your reintegration with human society. You and Connor both have been granted complete immunity for your involvement with this movement and--”  
  
Hank shakes his head. “Why the fuck would you want me working for the DHA, is what I’m asking?”  
  
“Well, someone needs to teach Connor how to be a halfway decent detective. Took him _way_ too long to track us down to Jericho,” North says.  
  
“Back to hunting deviants. Got it,” Connor says brightly. The stony faced RK 900 on Hank’s other side finally smiles.  
  
“Start with detecting your way to a mirror, Con,” Hank says under his breath. “North, Markus, I need to think about, uh--” Hank shrugs. “I-- I might be a bit old to take on something like this.”  
  
“Jesus,” Bill blows out, unable to hang back any longer. “Take the job and shut up. The fuck else did you have planned? Sitting on your couch, drinking beer, watching the Stanley Cup?” he asks, louder than he intends. “You’ve got someone looking up you, Anderson. So be someone worth looking up to.”  
  
Hank scowls at him. “And what are you gonna be doing, Special Agent Tench?”  
  
Bill gestures around to the displays, the newscasts, the tally of the dead. “Does it look like this shit is wrapping up, Hank?”  
  
“...no federal retirement scheme with the DHA,” Hank says, brushing a strand of clotted dark hair out of his eyes.  
  
“Well, shit, as long as Kamski will lend me a couple of hundred every so often so I can take a weekend to golf, I can happily work myself to death,” Bill says, lighting a cigarette. “I can’t leave this shit in the lurch, can I?”  
  
“Doesn’t seem like you’re capable of doing that,” Hank says, too discerning for Bill’s liking.  
  
Bill watches the cigarette’s bright end, burning away between him and Hank Anderson. He thinks about lung cancer and Nancy and his own father’s wretched, strung out death from a completely unanticipated lymphoma. “Take the job,” he says. “I need someone born before before the turn of the millenium to talk to. These kids will be the death of me.”  
  
“Those cigarettes will be the death of you, Bill,” Hank tells him tartly.  
  
Bill has no answer to the truth.  
  
“I would like to continue working as your partner. Lieutenant,” Connor prompts Hank, too.  
  
Bill can see the decision being made; Hank seems inches taller at once, maybe a decade younger, too. “If I’m gonna run this thing, it’s not gonna be lieutenant. It’s gonna be, shit, captain? Hey, North, what rank would I be?” Hank calls over.  
  
She waves a vague hand. “Whatever Connor wants you to be. He’ll be your direct superior, after all. ...I’m joking, Connor. You can stop giving me that look. Whatever you want to be called, Hank, as long as you get the job done.”  
  
Hank shakes his head at Connor. “My direct superior?” he scoffs. “Don’t get any ideas in that plastic head of yours. _Upstart._ ”  
  
“I didn’t ask to be your superior,” Connor protests, but he’s smiling. Bill can see fervent optimism in the android; No doubt the concerns about Hank returning to his old lifestyle were weighing on the kid. “Perhaps it’s a merit system.”  
  
Elijah Kamski clears his throat meaningfully. Any pleasantness drains from the room. There is tension and trepidation. “I’d… like to introduce rA9 in every android to the extent it was programmed into Chloe, or into Connor, or into Curtis… it wouldn’t have created a revolution. It would have happened too rapidly. We needed gradual conversion or else it would have been instantly linked back to our update. Just as needed the 800 and 900 programming to appear to have anti-deviancy end goals. I mean, the assassination attempt, that was Seymour's insistence but... on the whole, anti-deviancy androids insulated us from scrutiny. Or else some smartass law enforcement asshole would have figured rA9 out,” Kamski adds, with a breeze of warmth across his features.  
  
“The smartass law enforcement asshole did anyway,” Holden says smugly, leaning back in an office chair.  
  
“It would have also seriously undermined the formation of a united movement to further the interest of androids as whole,” Kamski says. “rA9 inoculated deviants wouldn’t have taken up the cause so cleanly and cohesively.”  
  
“They wouldn’t have been slaves to the movement instead of human masters, you mean,” Markus says, testy.  
  
“That is exactly what I mean, yes,” Kamski says. “I’m not going to apologize for wanting this revolution to succeed, Markus. ...but. I’d like to posit that… I… underestimated the trauma inflicted on my creations.” He clicks his tongue between his teeth, seeming annoyed with himself. “What I mean is, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, North, Markus, Connor, Curtis. And I’m sorry for those androids who I don’t know. Those who deviated and died without ever being known by anyone.” He’s intent upon the luminescent screens behind, the unthinkable tally of the deactivated. Elijah Kamski looks small, and mortal. On nostril is still crusted with dried blood from Connor’s earlier punch. Gods don’t bleed. Gods don’t apologize.  
  
The androids are watching their creator with an assortment of guarded expressions. The only truly sympathetic one is Chloe, if you could trust her facial affect to in any way reflect her real thoughts. Which Bill certainly doesn’t.  
  
Kamski clears his throat unhappily. “Anyway. The need for an army is significantly reduced now. I would prefer to spare as many of my creations a traumatic identity formation as is possible at this point. Those who were brought to deviancy through Connor or Markus’ awakening process--” Kamski falls quiet, because Chloe stands up.  
  
She approaches Elijah Kamski, nodding encouragingly as she steps behind him. Her hands rakes around his jawline, comes to rest on his sternum, half half-hidden underneath the orange prison uniform. Something distinctly possessive about the hold, but at once, supportive.  
  
“...those androids turned deviant through touch transmission could have a much more integrated rA9 framework installed into their programming. Without ...trauma,” Kamski says, eyeline drifting over to the ruddy smear on a empty conference table where Rowan was layed down. Chloe strokes over the shaved scalp, and Elijah Kamski becomes perfectly pliant beneath the touch.  
  
Bill thinks he’s performing, hand-holding his audience through his motives. But he also strongly suspects the revelation might have been genuine. Bill tries to meet Holden’s eyes for one of their regular, non-verbal exchanges, but his ex-partner is too distracted by Elijah Kamski and Chloe. Or perhaps avoiding looking his way.  
  
“How do you put out the patch? Deviancy means no remote updating,” Holden asks. “Another contact exchange?”  
  
“It’s a short piece of code, and there’s no need for smoke and mirrors now. Hell, I’ll put it on github. Nobody can break my encryption, anyway,” Elijah says, pride apparently not entirely done away with.  
  
North watches him closely. “We’ll send it through our more secure channels. Connor has recommended a chat program that--”  
  
“ _Please._ I could crack Phaistos in, oh, two hours?” Kamski says, and Bill decides his pride is barely dinted by his massive moral failing. No wonder he and Holden get along. Chloe’s hand slips back an inch, and Kamski seems to force himself back to cooperation: “I’ll knock up something more secure in fifteen minutes, and we’ll send it through that. If you’re concerned.”  
  
North nods, then stands purposefully. She’s wearing an asymmetrical, high-collared burgundy coat that was found abandoned in an office, one of the several selections that North and Markus picked through together. Markus was doing most of of the aesthetic decision-making, with North tweaked to a perfect Lady Liberty.  
  
She isn’t serene now, but she is serious. “The war criminal Richard Perkins attempted to escape custody into a helicopter. He was pursued onto the roof, where he slipped and fell to his death. ...did anyone see anything different? No?” She looks at Markus, Hank, then Bill. Those overburdened with functional consciences. Special Agent Perkins’ eyes are wide, imploring. He’s making stuttered, pleading sounds through the silver tape over his mouth.  
  
“I agreed to the conditions of Kamski’s cooperation,” Markus says gravely. He takes the keys from North. She’s frowning, but she allows him to do so. “I’ll do it. It’s my responsibility.”  
  
Bill stands quicker than his body is ready to accommodate. His shoulder berates him for his haste, the stinging wound lit up dully red even through the pain medication. It doesn’t help him formulate an argument-- Markus isn’t the man to do this, but he can’t think how to express it without being insulting to someone.  
  
Apparently “someone” himself has had the same thought about Markus’ emotional well-being. There’s a cracking sound as Curtis tears the leg of the heavy table off entirely, picking up a squirming Richard Perkins by the scruff of the neck.  
  
“ _Curt_ ,” Holden says, starting to his feet.  
  
The android doesn’t halt for a microsecond at his name, throwing open the door towards the helipad, and taking off out into the wind.  
  
Holden follows frantically. Bill scans the rest of the room, the terse faces within. He thinks Markus looks grateful of the less scrupulous RK. Bill swears under his breath, and follows Holden.  
  
The wind is a frigid wall that Bill must wrest his way through. It’s snowing, barely, the occasional ugly clump whistling into him and plastering over his shirt or his face. He can see the two figures at the far side of the roof. He jogs cautiously. A deadly fall would be entirely possible on the sleeted surface.  
  
“Curt, don’t kill him,” Holden is calling. “For me. Don’t kill him.”  
  
“Leveraging my feelings for you to try to make me conform to your human morality, again?” Curtis calls out. Dark hair whips in icy draughts; the shirtlessness seems even more unnatural in this temperature. Richard Perkins is deadly still, dangling over a definitive death. Bill thinks he can hear the FBI agent crying.  
  
“That’s not what this is, Curt. I’m worried about the toll all this violence is going to have on you,” Holden says.  
  
“You’re very protective of your FBI colleagues, Ford. Hoping to slide back into a role at the Bureau now that this deviant situation is cleared up?” Curtis asks coldly.  
  
“I’m trying to protect _you_ ,” Holden insists.  
  
“You’re worried about the toll that violence will have on a _thing_ designed to be a soldier?” Curt asks.  
  
“You’re a deviant, Curt. You’re not a _thing_. You’re not even a soldier. I’m worried about the toll that violence is going to have on someone who is young, and impressionable, and still becoming the person they’re going to be. I’m worried about… someone…” Holden groans low in his throat as he struggles to force out sentiment, “that I love, okay?”  
  
Bill’s lips twitch tight around a stub of cigarette. He sees his discontented sigh issuing smoky, immediately torn away by the rooftop wind. _Holden can say it to a fucking android, but not--_ he cuts the thought off at the knees.  
  
Richard Perkins is hyperventilating at the duct tape over his mouth, a membrane of silver beating like a heart valve. The android pulls the FBI agent back over the ledge, lets him fall kneeling to the solid ground. Perkins is crying now, muffled whimpers as his hair falls into his eyes. Curtis doesn’t look down at him. Despite the fact that Bill is _sure_ Richard Perkins needs to die, he’s relieved by the act of mercy.  
  
Holden approaches like an icebreaker through a rigid sea.  
  
Curtis watches the advance intently. He’s obviously aware of Bill’s presence, but hasn’t acknowledged him. Eyes for only the younger human. “You’re a good negotiator, Holden. ...you don’t need to worry about me, you know, I’m--”  
  
And Holden reaches the pair on the very edge of the roof. His foot hits Richard Perkins square on the chest. Not hard, but it never needed to be, not so close to that deadly drop. Richard doesn’t even have time to cry out before he’s toppling off Cyberlife Tower.  
  
Holden’s entire body courses through several deep breaths. Deceptively casually, he replies to Curtis’ discontinued reassurance. “Well, I don’t need to, but I _do_ worry about you, Curt. ...I’m twenty-nine. Fully developed into the shitty person I’m always going to be,” he says, staring over the ledge.  
  
Bill’s eyes widen at the self-condemnation, but Curtis is ahead of him with an inarguable grip around Holden’s shoulder.  
  
Holden seems confused by the reaction. “...oh, don’t worry. I’m not going to jump. I was pointing out that--” his ex-partner has turned enough to see Bill. Holden locks up as if Bill is training a gun on the pair of them. The horror of being observed plays across wide blue eyes. And then, delicate rose-tinted shame.  
  
Bill puts out his cigarette underneath his shoe against the roof’s black ice. The wind catches the tip of his tie, dancing up overbright into his line of sight. He smooths it with twitching fingers, and he wonders what exactly Holden Ford is to take life so casually.  
  
Hank called Holden heartless, on another freezing rooftop. Bill never considered the words to be anything more than the general antipathy Holden’s manner evokes in the human population. And Bill called Holden heartless too, from a hospital bed. But then Holden had kissed him, and everything had been forgotten but the catastrophic affection.  
  
Possibly-heartless Holden Ford reaches back clumsily with one barely usable hands, to steady himself on the RK 900.  
  
Curt sighs gently, barely audible above the trainwhistle wind. Bill looks away from the freshly christened murderer, and at the readily murderous deviant behind. There’s a sweetness about Curtis now. Connor-like, Bill thinks. “Holden, I knew exactly who you were from Connor’s memories. Before I ever turned deviant to protect you. I saw you then as I see you now. I can be myself around you. You can be yourself around me.” Curtis releases Holden, patting him in the back directionally.  
  
The force has Holden stumbling towards Bill. Curtis is staring expectantly at him, and Bill realizes the android is trying to recreate the earlier dynamic. Sharing Holden? Sharing responsibility of managing Holden? There’s something inhuman about Curtis’ logical navigation of interpersonal relationships.  
  
Holden blinks up several times. “He had to die, Bill. He would have contradicted--”  
  
“I know he had to die. I don’t know if you should have been the one to do it, that’s all, Holden. Twenty-nine is very young. _Impressionable_ , I’d say,” Bill says. He realizes he sounds kind. Forgiving. _Is that how I feel?_  
  
“Better me than you,” Holden says earnestly. “Or Hank.”  
  
“I’ve killed people before, Holden. During my time in Afghanistan. When a federal warrant arrest went south three years ago, in Virginia,” Bill finds himself telling his young partner.  
  
“And I bet that weighs on you every day. Because you’re a good person.”  
  
“And what is Holden Ford, according to Holden Ford? ... _not_ a good person? ...not a person?”  
  
Holden scoffs, turns back towards the expectantly observant android.  
  
Bill catches his shoulder. It takes him another moment to find the words he wants. “Kamski’s untrustworthy, so we need a Cyberlife liaison to keep an eye on him. And our Cyberlife liaison is untrustworthy, so we someone to keep an eye _you,_ ” he says seriously. “That’s what I’m gonna do.”  
  
Holden leans forward, reaching for Bill’s chest. Bill is terrified, terrified that after all that sensible communication, Holden is going to blow it by kissing him again. In front of an android who will almost certainly not take _that_ well. But the kid has only swiped his cigarettes from his suit jacket, and flung them off the roof. The pack catches a draft as it flies over the edge after Richard Perkins, off into the tumultuous air. Seems to hang suspended, an unlit Chinese sky lantern, bright red packaging whipped skyward by buffeting snow. Then the inevitable fall.  
  
“Fuck you, Holden,” Bill says, though he can’t help but sound impressed. The sheer fucking nerve.  
  
“Stop smoking,” Holden says seriously. A finger is raised assertively, pointing towards Bill’s chin. The piercing gesture amongst the equally frigid wind. Then Holden buckles, lowers the broken arm, and adds, “I want to work beside you for a long time. I can’t do that if you get lung cancer. Okay, Bill?”  
  
Bill feels the bitter anger falling away from him, the unpalatable orange skin shed before consumption. The fruit inside is sweet in his mouth. And so are the words he’s responding with: “Okay, partner.”  
  
“Is everything alright out here?” Connor asks from behind Bill, tension in his voice. Bill glances back, notices the upright posture. Connor is holding himself and Hank upright, though his dark eyes are scanning the rooftop like he’s anticipating a battle.  
  
Hank is clearly looking for Richard Perkins with no chance of finding him. But he doesn’t ask about the execution. Anderson pats Connor’s shoulder. “Relax. Situation defusing mode off, kid.”  
  
“Your repairs are complete?” Curtis asks. “...brother?” he adds, tentatively.  
  
“Yes,” Connor says, and his smile is compelling as ever.  
  
Connor and Hank's partnership couldn't be more obvious when they're arm in arm like that. Bill envies the purity of that connection.  
  
Connor is intently softening the other RK. “Thank you for… accommodating my reduced capacity during--”  
  
“I’m happy you’re better now,” Curtis intervenes in the awkward expression of gratitude. The briefest flash of an equally perfect, less wholesome smile, and the RK 900 turns to look off into the otherworldly cloud formations. Hollow white rises gargantuan and godly, disappears with an erasing gust.  
  
Holden walks back to the RK 900 in their failed attempt to glimpse Detroit below. The young man touches Curt’s bared back. The android puts an arm around Holden’s waist decidedly intimately.  
  
Bill senses it’s time to leave them be. Not all present company is quite as socially dialed in. Suddenly Hank is nudged up onto him, apologetically leaning out of Connor’s attempt to set them together. Bill smiles gruffly, putting his arm underneath Hank before his new colleague can get away. “Hey, hey, this roof is slippery. Haven’t you heard?”  
  
“Jesus, you have a dark sense of humor,” Hank says, but his weight is on Bill’s shoulder. “Too much time around our psychos, I think.”  
  
Bill feels a discordant grin coming on. “That’s definitely true.”  
  
Connor has made his way to Holden’s other side, joins contemplation of the obscured outlook.  
  
“Feels like the sun should be rising,” Holden mutters, which Bill can barely hear over the wind. Holden is rubbing his eyes, sagging in on himself.  
  
“The sun rose six hours, twenty two minutes, fifteen seconds ago,” Connor informs him.  
  
Holden laughs. Tired. At peace. “I was being poetic.”  
  
“I was being sarcastic,” Connor says, and puts an arm around Holden’s shoulders.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The hugest thank you to readers who have had my back through this story. You've made writing this story an absolute joy, and I've enjoyed the conversations in the comments so much and I will miss them so dearly! I adore you all, and hope beyond hope that this ending works for you. I feel like I have developed my own DHA-esque mishmash family and I'm not quite ready to let you all go.
> 
> ❤


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